The Double-First of Mycroft Holmes
by Rector
Summary: A romance. Secrets, suspicion and seduction. An old love-affair, an old conflict and a new life. A Cate and Mycroft story.
1. Chapter 1

**Acknowledgements**:

This is a non-profit _homage_ based upon characterisations developed by Messrs. Moffat, Gatiss and Thompson for the BBC series _Sherlock_. The character of Mycroft has been brought to life through the acting skills of Mr. Gatiss. No transgression of copyright or licence is intended.

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**Note**:

This narrative is fifth in a series. Your enjoyment of this story will likely be enhanced if you read the first four in their chronological order:

**The Education of Mycroft Holmes**

**Mycroft Holmes: A Terminal Degree**

**Mycroft Holmes and the Trivium Protocol**

**Mycroft Holmes in Excelsis**

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**The Double-First of Mycroft Holmes**

**Chapter One**

_An Annoyance of Headaches – Ennui – Alliances – The Talk – The Nature of a Problem – Persuasion – An Announcement – The Distant Crackle of Gunfire – Not Victorian England – The Right Hand of Mycroft Holmes._

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The headaches were small, incidental things at first, usually nothing a few minutes rest couldn't fix. Then they became a little more aggressive but an aspirin or two seemed to do the trick. It was probably overwork: the job was particularly demanding at the moment. In addition to her normal lecturing responsibilities, there were two additional PhD candidates to support through their first year; a big conference in Vienna a couple of months away, at which she was a keynote speaker; she had also started writing a new monograph; _and on top of this_ she had been suckered into writing a postgraduate course on forensic novelisation: the transformation of living drama into fiction or magical realism. The _only_ reason she'd agreed to that was that she now had a number of good, solid contacts and friends, in the police force. Cate had also read John's blog on numerous occasions, and was trying to think of a way in which she could persuade him into supplying details for the course's case-studies. She felt a little weary: too much to do and not nearly enough hours in the week.

Thus the headaches were a pain in more ways than one; they distracted her from whatever bit of her job was clamouring most loudly for her attention at the time, and the one thing Cate did _not_ have time for, was an ongoing nuisance like this. She had never been overly keen on taking anything, ever, and knew she was fortunate not to need regular medication. So the headaches, when they kept returning, were, at first, an irritant, then an annoyance, until finally Cate thought she might have a word with the doctors at the University medical centre. Both the full-time doctors over there were old friends, and both owed her a favour or two. Cate decided she'd give one of them a call and have a chat.

Doctor Pilar Torres answered the internal phone call. "Hiya, Cate. Long time no hear; what's up?"

"Hello, _Pilly_," Cate smiled at the sound of her Chilean friend's voice. "I'm having headaches and it's beginning to get annoying."

"Headaches as in problems or as in headaches? You staring for hours at your computer-screen again?" Torres was an expert on the abuse to which academics commonly subjected their bodies. Too many deadlines, too much coffee, too little fresh-air, yet her friend would not normally call for anything minor, so Pilar was curious.

"As in pains in my head," Cate sighed. "And no more than usual," she added. "I take regular breaks, drink plenty of water and limit my caffeine," she added. "So I have no clue what the problem is."

"You still pretty active physically? Getting plenty of exercise?" Torres went through a mental checklist.

"Oh yes," in the privacy of her office, Cate's grin was shameless. Apart from her dancing and Hapkido, she was married to a man who viewed the physical side of their relationship as high art. Whatever was causing the headaches, it was unlikely to be a lack of exercise.

"Eating well? No problems anywhere else?"

"Like a horse and no; it's only the headaches, although I am feeling a bit tired with all the work on my desk, but then," Cate was philosophical. "Who isn't, these days?"

"Maybe you'd better pop over and I'll get some samples for testing, just to be on the safe side, hey? Can you come over now? It's nice and quiet."

"There in ten," Cate smiled down the phone as she hung up.

###

The man beside her was asleep and unlikely to provide any amusement for a while. She sighed. The more choice she had, the younger her lovers became, and yet they were barely adequate and with so little _style_. She sighed again, longing for the days when there was real ardour in her men, when love was measured in jewels and furs and fierce devotion and sometimes, in blood. Was she really getting old?

Slipping off the massive circular bed, she walked across to the great curved bank of mirrors behind her dressing-table. Allowing the sheer peignoir to drift from her shoulders to the floor, she stepped, naked, beyond the pooling silk and analysed herself in the mass of reflections. Adopting a variety of poses, she scrutinised every last curve, both convex and concave. The smoothness of her skin was next and the voluptuous slide of long, elegant muscle beneath. The bones of her face and neck and the way the lights caught and displayed their structure; the clarity of her wide grey eyes; the thoroughbred lines of her shoulders, arms and hands. Anything, in fact, that was of the physical. She smiled, pleased. Her skin was lightly golden and flawless. Any wrinkles were so fine as to be unnoticeable at this distance and in this light. Her hair was magnificent; a mane of darkly honeyed-gold that hung thickly over her shoulders without the slightest acknowledgement of grey.

Talina Sarkis was an unquestionable testament to the beautician's science and she knew it. A superbly beautiful woman with everything, it seemed, she could possibly want, apart from one important thing. She was bored. She hated boredom with a passion, but she knew a way to relieve it, a way out of this suffocating ennui. She needed a distraction: something dangerous and risky; something that would make her blood run faster.

A name and a face arrived in her thoughts. Such an old name, a name she hadn't thought about for years. Sat at her dressing table, she pulled open a small drawer. Inside were a number of flat jewellery boxes. Opening one in particular, she saw a collection of rings and digging through, she found one that was rather plain; gold, without attempt at decoration or embellishment. It was a wedding-ring and it had been hers. It was half of a pair.

The name in her head was responsible for its twin. Perhaps it was time for them to be reunited.

There was only one way to accomplish this.

She would have to start a war.

###

Seated at his moderate but well-appointed desk in his moderate but well-appointed office in an anonymous building in Whitehall, Mycroft Holmes skimmed through a thick sheaf of print-outs pertaining to political traffic around Eastern Europe. Notices of new alliances, of local followings; of the removal of the old guard through power-play or death; the rise of young Turks and the development of new terrors. Europe was a capricious chessboard, and he kept an eye on all the key pieces. One never knew when a king might be checked.

"_Anthea_," he knew his assistant would be considering leaving for the evening. "First thing in the morning could you track down Interior Minister Datshi Tsiklauri in Tbilisi, for me please? Something's going on along the border near Alaverdi, and I want to know what it is."

"Would you like me to arrange a meeting with Mr Tsiklauri?"

"Only if he has definite information," Mycroft recalled how the man loved to talk. "If so, fit him into a secure video-conference sometime tomorrow afternoon: immediately prior to my chat with the PM, might be prudent."

"Anything else you need, Sir?" her voice, coolly efficient, held the merest hint of haste. _Ah_. One of her suitors was waiting. The newest of the three she was currently dangling on various strings, given the slight impatience. An artist, this new one, they would naturally be attending the opening of the _Bauhaus_ exhibit at the Tate Modern.

Nothing more, thank you," Mycroft smiled faintly. "Enjoy Gropius," he said, flicking the intercom closed.

The Jaguar did well in the evening's traffic, enabling him to walk through the door of the townhouse a little after six-thirty.

Throwing his keys into a Georgian silver fruit-dish, Mycroft hung his coat and slid his umbrella into an old seventy-five millimetre brass shell-casing by the door.

Music was playing, a nostalgic piece of violin and cello in minor keys.

Cate was home and in a romantic mood. He smiled. He had brought flowers and she would be pleased. He enjoyed pleasing her; it made his life breath-takingly interesting. Walking into the kitchen, the place was redolent with garlic and rosemary and mint, as she basted a thick piece of lamb before sliding it back into the oven. He had spotted roasting potatoes too.

"Dinner in about forty-five minutes, my love," she smiled up at him, her expression brightening even more when she saw the bouquet of Gardenia in his hand. "How lovely," she buried her face into the creamy-white blossoms, inhaling deeply.

Lifting her hand to the side of his face, she drew him down into a kiss. "I love you even when you don't bring me flowers," she murmured.

Sliding his arms around her waist, he pulled her gently closer.

"And how do you feel about me when I do?" he nibbled the lobe of her ear.

"Like this," she whispered, parting his lips with her own, Cate kissed him slowly and meticulously, until his head swam with the sensation of her.

"Better stop," his voice was husky. "Or dinner will be late again."

"We have forty-five minutes," Cate was still grazing his lips with her own. "I'll set the timer."

"Damn the timer," Mycroft pulled her tighter, claiming her mouth and making her shiver with desire as he groaned softly into her.

Dinner was only a little late.

###

It had been several weeks since she'd last seen him, but then he'd invited her for a drink, which had turned into a dinner, which had ended up back at a pub. Then he called her again the following week, and again two weeks later. Each time they'd met up somewhere nothing special; had something fairly ordinary to eat and drink, had a few incidental laughs. No big deal.

The next week, he'd asked her to go to the pictures with him. She'd said yes, except it was a horror film which scared the bejesus out of her.

It took them both several minutes to realise she'd grabbed his hand. It took them another few minutes to realise he hadn't let go.

So; here they were. In a perfectly ordinary restaurant, doing what hundreds of thousands of people were doing all over the country, having dinner out. Except this time, they were having The Talk.

"Soccer, West Ham, actually," Lestrade laughed.

"Rugby Union, All Blacks and Reeboks," Garret lifted her eyebrows.

"Beer and occasionally a half-decent Scotch," Greg smiled faintly.

"Red wine and Vodka; the good stuff for preference," Julia sat back in her seat, nibbling a breadstick.

"David Attenborough documentaries and B-grade science-fiction films," his eyebrow twitched just a little.

"World news and vampire flicks," her mouth curved slightly.

"What," he narrowed his eyes, uncertain. "Not _those_ awful …"

"Yes, exactly _those_," she remained straightfaced. "I'm a hopeless romantic."

"_Jeez_," he sucked in a deep breath and looked faintly agonised. "I thought bad science fiction was going to be hard to top."

They both paused, sipping their respective drinks.

"You know, without the smallest shadow of any doubt _whatsoever_, that this is not going to work, don't you?" Julia Garret pointed the breadstick at him.

"Of course it's not going to work," Leaning forward onto the table; Greg Lestrade raised his eyebrows and nodded. "It hasn't got a chance in hell of working."

"I mean," Garret ticked off the points on her fingers. "We're both D.I.s, which means we both work appalling hours under unbelievable levels of stress in order to meet unrealistic deadlines."

"And don't forget the paperwork," Lestrade shook his head. "_Endless_, bloody paperwork."

"Plus either of us could be transferred to the far corners of the country at almost any time," Julia nodded philosophically.

"If we put in for it," Greg frowned. "Only if we wanted a transfer."

"But it could happen," Garret shook her head again.

"Speaking hypothetically, yes, it could," Lestrade liked the way her eyelids blinked so slowly when she was thinking. It was alluring, hypnotic, almost.

"And we're completely different kinds of people," Julia looked up into a pair of fascinating hazel eyes and felt her breath stall for a moment. They were so like her own yet completely different. "Nothing in common between us."

"Not a thing," Greg agreed, cheerfully.

"So what are we doing here?" Julia smiled when she noticed a small tuft of his hair move every time his raised his eyebrows.

_The light in this place makes her look exotic,_ he thought. _Such high cheek-bones_.

"Dunno what you're doing here," Lestrade laughed as he sipped his beer. "But I'm having dinner with a gorgeous bird who doesn't mind that I'm a copper."

Julia sat back in her chair again, her eyes evaluating the tall Londoner.

"You know I said ages ago your attempts at charm were awful?" she said.

"_Yeah_," Greg grinned again.

"You're improving, but it's still not going to work," she smiled, slowly biting the end off her breadstick.

###

There was a voicemail message from Pilar Torres on her office phone. She noticed her two computer screens had been moved from their normal places. IT had probably been in here messing around again. She wished they'd tell her about these visits in advance.

"Morning, Pilly," Cate was still shrugging out of her coat as she held the phone to her ear. "What can I do for you?"

"Hello, Cate. Are you free sometime this morning? I'd like to have a talk."

The faintest of prickles washed across Cate's skin. It was unlike Pilar to be quite so inexpressive.

"Something wrong?"

"It's not really something I can discuss on the phone, so best you come over here as soon as you can."

"How about right now?" Cate stood back up.

"_Perfect_," the doctor was giving nothing away. "See you in a few."

Sliding her coat back on, Cate frowned. It had to be something to do with the tests. It sounded urgent. Whatever it was, it didn't bode well.

It took less than ten-minutes to reach the University Medical Centre in Gower Street.

"Sit down, Cate," Pilar took her own seat behind the desk. "Thanks for getting here so early."

"You sounded as if this was important, urgent even."

"In some ways it is," the doctor took a deep breath.

"Do you know what's giving me the headaches?" Cate was starting to feel a pulse of alarm. Pilar did not look relaxed.

"Yes, we do, but that's not the problem."

_There was a problem_.

"Then what is it?"

Doctor Torres told her.

###

The conversation with Tsiklauri had been inconclusive, yet the man had hinted at certain disturbing activities just over the Georgian border, in the hinterland of Armenian Akhtala. He had used the phrase _agitated warlords_ twice and the word _provoked_ in several contexts. What was happening in the far northern reaches of Armenia to upset the locals? Who or what was provoking whom?

Running a mental audit of assets in the area, Mycroft recalled a certain provincial journalist who might be persuaded to remember a certain favour once provided by the British Crown – a small matter of an alibi during some highly unorthodox anti-Soviet reportage back in the early nineties.

"See if we still have contact details for Ara Chakarian, would you?" he asked, knowing his assistant's facility for names would provide her with the necessary entrée.

Within a matter of minutes, Anthea had him connected on a secure line.

"Mr Chakarian, how _pleasant_ to speak with you again," Mycroft was urbanity itself. "I trust you are quite well?"

"_Professor_ Chakarian, now, Mr Holmes," the man said. "I teach at the University of Yerevan these days and I am very well, thank you."

"And do you recall the giddy excitement of life _before_ the academy?" the elder Holmes toyed with the plain gold ring on his right hand. "Of life as an anonymous author, perhaps?

There was a brief silence at the other end of the phone.

"My memory is as good as yours, Mr Holmes, although my imagination appears lacking. Why are we having this conversation?"

Mycroft informed him.

The professor wasn't being asked to do _so_ much, not really. Just keep his ear to the ground and perhaps do a little extra-curricular investigative work, just to keep his hand in, of course. The value of contemporary experience in the field could never be underestimated.

###

Cate found herself back in her office. She had no idea how she had arrived here; or by which route. She sat at her desk, still in her overcoat, her mind reeling.

Her heart was beating as hard as it had when Pilar first explained her medical condition. She had no idea, not an inkling: she had felt entirely fine, no discomfort, no illness. But that's how it went, she supposed. You woke up one day and … there you were.

Feeling slightly nauseous – _shock_, she realised – Cate knew she would do no work today.

"Natalie, I'm not feeling very well and I'm going home," she advised the general Admin for the department. "If anyone needs me, get them to send an email please."

Locking her office door, Cate wandered aimlessly down to street-level and stood by the kerb, not even thinking about hailing a cab. She just stood there.

A cab pulled in on the off-chance she wanted one.

Giving the address, Cate sat back against the firm cushioning of the wide back seat, her body now hyper-aware of every little bounce and shake. The smell of the wind, of car-fumes, of the inside of the cab. Her skin felt the tiniest of breezes and she observed the near-invisible lines of dried rain along the side window nearest her. Details flailed at her consciousness. Her mother used to say that people who were old enough to understand, never forgot where they were, or what they were doing, at the time Kennedy's assassination was announced: she knew now what her mother had meant. Minutia of an entire morning was being written irrevocably into her memory in astonishing depth and dimension.

Her Samsung rang: of course, it would have to be Mycroft. Before she'd even begun to get her thoughts together, she needed to be able to hide them from her husband. Cate wasn't ready to deal with him yet: she had to get some shape to her own thinking first.

"Hello, Darling," the words rang oddly even in her own ears.

"What's the matter?" His voice was immediately probing. "Something's wrong, what is it?"

She should have known better than to imagine deception was possible.

"I'm not feeling well and I'm going home," she answered truthfully.

"Do you need a doctor?" Mycroft sounded concerned.

Of course, he'd never known her to be sick before. It wasn't something she did very often.

"No, darling, I shall have a lie-down and maybe a nap. I'll be fine."

"Do you want me to come home?"

_Definitely not_.

"There's no need, my love," she swallowed against a suddenly pounding heart. The desire to beg him to rush home and hold her tight was almost unbearable. "See you later." She ended the call with relief.

Stepping out, she handed the cabbie several notes without looking at them, but as he didn't quibble, they must have been enough.

Closing the front-door behind her, Cate draped her coat haphazardly over the stair newel-post, dropping her briefcase unthinkingly. Her throat was as dry as the Sahara and she found herself in the kitchen looking at the big steel refrigerator, wondering what she was supposed to do next.

Remembering how to open the door, she dug out a chilled bottle of effervescent water, gulping it direct without bothering with a glass: the icy bubbles slaked some of the dryness from her throat. She coughed as it went down too fast. Carrying the bottle, she went and sat at the kitchen table, sitting and staring at nothing.

Which is how Mycroft found her when the Jaguar dropped him off not quite ten minutes later.

"I knew there was something wrong," he said, pulling the gloves from his fingers, laying them and his coat on the granite bench top. "Up to bed," he nodded. "I shall have a doctor here within fifteen minutes."

"There's no need for a doctor," she inhaled slowly.

"I beg to differ, my love," Mycroft sat opposite, examining her face. She was pale and her eyes were overly bright. "Are you feverish? Are you in pain?"

"Mycroft, _I don't need a doctor_," Cate dropped her head into her hands. She hadn't wanted it to be this way; she had hoped to work out an easier way of telling him than this. _There was no way to prepare him; he would react badly._

"I've just _been_ to a doctor," she added.

She sensed his breathing slow, felt him sit slowly upright as he stared at her.

"Why have you seen a doctor?" he asked, quietly. "And why am I only finding this out now?"

"I've been getting headaches and they wanted to run some tests," she said.

"_Headaches_? And you didn't think to mention this to me?"

"They weren't that bad."

"Bad enough though, that you felt the need to seek a medical opinion?"

_True. Maybe she should have said something_.

Lifting her eyes to his, Cate saw he wasn't cross, but neither was he exactly happy. He looked troubled.

"They found the headaches were due to the refresh-rate on my new computer monitors being incorrectly aligned or some such technical issue," she added, pausing, trying to find another way to say what couldn't be avoided now.

"IT fixed the monitors," she paused. "But the tests found … something else … and that's what I saw the doctor about this morning."

Mycroft inhaled softly. "What have they found, Cate?" his voice was tightly controlled, his heart-rate accelerating as her expression grew increasingly conflicted. Something was very wrong: she was going to say something unthinkable.

Cate closed her eyes. _This was not the way to tell him_. Breathing deeply, she searched for a different avenue, but there was no way around it.

Taking another gulp of water and feeling her throat tighten to the point where, if she didn't say something now, she might not be able to say anything at all; Cate closed her eyes again and inhaled slowly.

"Mycroft, I'm pregnant."

_There_. It was said. Hardly daring to breathe at all now, she looked into his face, scanning for whatever expression was going to form, for whatever thoughts might be going through his mind, but all she saw was absolute stillness. No sudden tension, no frown, no smile, either. The most minute widening of his eyes, but that was all. He was completely impassive, completely silent.

The silence grew.

Her stomach sank into an icy pit and she felt sick. _She had been right_. This was the worst way for him to receive the information. He would have no interest in a child; he'd regard one as an imposition. She should have found a way to break it to him less directly.

Mycroft was utterly immobilised: couldn't move, couldn't breathe.

Expecting Cate to say something entirely different, something terrifying, he felt instead an immense pressure coiling itself around his internal organs, forcing the air from his lungs and the blood from his brain. He couldn't think, not even his senses were working since all he could hear was Cate's voice telling him she was going to have a child. Their child. _His child_.

He had long ago accepted a solitary existence, but then he had met this incredible, exasperating, singular woman, who, despite all logic and sense, had agreed to share her life with him and in doing so, had radicalised his world. And now she was offering him a future he had ceased to consider realistically possible. There was to be a child. _His child_. _My child_.

His head was spinning; there was a vast blank space instead of words. He should breathe.

"Say something, please," Cate looked down at her hands, "before I burst into tears and embarrass us both."

He stood so suddenly, his chair rocked and fell. He was around the table, had pulled her gently upright and into his arms before she realised what he was doing, her entire body, from knees to forehead, pressed against Savile Row's finest. Wrapped comprehensively in the cocoon of his arms, unable even to move her head, she felt the vibrations through his chest more than heard the low pitch of his voice as his face pressed into her hair.

"My darling Cate," he murmured, his voice gravelly. "My _darling_ girl; you clever, _clever_ thing, my love, _Catie_ _my darling_, _how_ _wonderful_, _incredible_, my sweet, _sweet_ Catie …"

Holding her away to find her lips, his mouth was soft in a kiss so unbearably tender Cate felt she would weep from it. He folded her up in his arms and simply held her tight; motionless against him.

"_Overall, I prefer breathing, if possible_," she muffled against his shoulder.

Releasing her instantly, he moved his hands to hold the sides of her head, his eyes, absurdly blue, were riveted to her face, searching Cate's expression for more information.

"You feel genuinely happy about this? You don't mind at all?" she whispered, laying her hands over his she stared back into the brilliance of his gaze. She needed to be sure.

He straightened abruptly, bewildered, as if the question were a _non-sequitur_.

"Don't mind? Don't _mind_? My darling heart, I'm … _stunned_ beyond words …_ I_ …" his voice trailed away as he saw her expression. "Don't tell me you imagined for even an instant I'd be anything less than thrilled?"

"Quite honestly, I wasn't sure," Cate leaned against him as relief left her dizzy. "You've never expressed a desire for children, and we haven't really discussed the issue, so I thought, that, _well_ …"

"I didn't know if we could," Mycroft's voice was low, understated, as he laid his head against hers. "I would never want you to think our marriage was anything less than complete."

"Well, we can and we have and it always has been." Cate sounded very matter-of-fact.

"And how do you feel about it?" Mycroft examined her face warily.

"It hasn't quite sunk in yet," she admitted. "I'm having to rethink everything."

That was understandable: in that respect, they were in the same boat.

"When is it … _the_ … _our_ … _child_ due … expected … _when_?" The idea was still too strange to fit to words.

"My body has never run on what you'd call a predictable schedule," Cate wrinkled her nose and shrugged. "So actually, I'm not entirely sure," she rested her face against his waistcoat. "My best guess is sometime in September."

Holding her close again, he smiled against her ear. "So it was … _Christmas?_"

"All that romantic snow," Cate closed her eyes and wallowed in the assuring sensation of his embrace. "The doctor I saw at the University clinic wants me to arrange a time soon for an ultrasound and the usual tests to ensure the baby is healthy."

"You plan on using the University services for your antenatal support?" Mycroft frowned a little, not terribly impressed with the idea. He didn't want Cate to have to wait on the over-stretched services of a semi-public medical utility.

Guiding her into the rear lounge, to one of the big sofas, he held his wife's hand, stroking the soft skin. His expression held nothing but concern.

"I'd be more comfortable if you would consult a private specialist. I can have all the required visits arranged for you by tomorrow."

"I'm actually quite happy using the medical centre," Cate shook her head, her words sincere. "They're very good."

Mycroft sighed inwardly. Cate was infernally determined to resist anything that smacked of _making a fuss_. They had had this discussion before. His fingertips following the fine lace of veins on the back of her hand, Mycroft looked into her eyes. Now that his brain cells had had time to regroup, he was not about to give this argument up.

"I realise you are the one carrying this child and, at best, all I am able to do is wait in the wings," he said softly. "But please allow me to help. Even if all I can do is arrange your medical appointments, let me do that small thing."

Cate pressed her lips together. She really didn't want a lot of bother made. She was having a baby; despite feeling a bit wobbly right now, she wasn't ill or an invalid and there wasn't anything remotely wrong with her. Women did this by the tens-of-thousands every day. She was as fit and healthy as she could possibly be; as long as there were no specific problems with the child, she saw little need to behave in any way out of the ordinary. There was absolutely nothing lacking in the services of the University's medical centre; she and the baby would be fine. She would politely decline Mycroft's offer.

His eyes were still astonishingly blue. "Please, Catherine."

Her refusal faded _ab initio_. He hadn't called her Catherine since the wedding. Mycroft was fighting dirty.

"You're not going to let this go, are you?" she asked, a resigned smile arriving on her face.

Holding her knuckles to his lips, he looked up at her, his face alight with unrestrained affection. Lifting his eyebrows, he shook his head slowly.

"You'd be quite willing to make my life unbearable until I agreed, wouldn't you?"

Mycroft frowned, a fingertip tracing the faint blue line of a vein on her hand. "Not _unbearable_, my love," he murmured. "Difficult, certainly."

Her smile grew. "And there is absolutely no possible way in which I might convince you otherwise?"

"None whatsoever," he reached for her other hand, holding them between his own and looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"Then if it's so very important to you," she was unable to resist his mock-seriousness. "Go ahead and arrange anything you want to arrange," she smiled, lifting her shoulders in acquiescence. "This baby is as much yours to look after as it is mine."

"_Whatever_ I want to arrange?" Still holding her fingers, his voice took on a mildly calculating note.

"Yes," Cate sighed extravagantly, relief at his response to the news making her reckless. "Whatever you want," she said. "I have a feeling I'll be nibbled to death by your requests otherwise, so I may as well let you get it all off your chest while you have a reasonable excuse to do so."

"_Darling._" Mycroft was delighted; he hadn't expected _carte blanche._

He would have to work quickly.

###

The distant crackle of automatic gunfire suggested the boys were playing again.

It had taken nearly two weeks, but, by careful effort, she had managed to reignite an old local disagreement between two of the area's oldest families. Ancient accusations had turned into contemporary ones; old enmities had become new again. Grievances swooped and flew about the place like crows; looking for victims, waiting for carrion. Quiet voices had grown louder: _much_ louder, loud enough, in fact, to be heard a very long way away.

The police had already thrown up their hands in disgust and either stayed out of it all, or had gone looking for military support.

If the army were involved, then national government was involved, and if the news had gone national, its internationalisation was ensured and a matter only of social media and time.

And once this thing reached the BBC, she would have achieved her goal. There were risks, of course, but then, that was part of the attraction. Always had been.

It would be very soon now.

Rolling the gold band around the ring-finger of her right hand, Talina smiled.

###

"And when will you inform the University that you're resigning?" They were in the kitchen where Mycroft was standing, shelling peas for dinner while Cate kept him company. He insisted that if she wasn't going to lie down, then she could at least _sit_ down and take some tea. "I assume they'll expect a period of notice?"

"Resign?" Cate put her cup back in the saucer. "Why on earth would I resign from the University?"

Placing a half-emptied pod carefully onto the chopping-board, Mycroft leaned both sets of knuckles on the benchtop as he fixed his wife with look which suggested her question contained little sense and even less merit. He took a slow, deep breath.

"Are you seriously considering remaining at work?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Of course I am," Cate shook her head in bafflement. "Why would you imagine otherwise?"

Mycroft was silent. While it was just he and Cate fending for themselves, then her working had some logic: he knew she would become bored and restless very quickly without intellectual stimulation. But that was obviously no longer the case.

Cate needed to take care of herself for the baby's sake – he was able to think those words now without losing the thread of his thoughts – and would clearly not be available to work after the child arrived.

"I'm not sure I want you to do that," he deliberately maintained eye-contact, confident she would see sense. "I'd really prefer you to stop work now that we have a child … _our child, my child_ … to think about." His heart was beginning to accustom itself to the notion that he was to be a father: it had pounded only a _little_ harder that time.

She looked at him, her face showing a clear struggle with her feelings.

Mycroft realised that to relinquish the academy would be hard for her; he could respect that. He hoped she wouldn't be overly upset by the thought of leaving; that she wasn't going to …

_Laugh_. She was _laughing_. Quite vigorously. Cate looked at his mystified expression and laughed even more, her face turning faintly pink with the intensity of it.

"My _darling_ Mycroft," she sucked in the first of several deep breaths, grinning helplessly. "This is not Victorian England where I plan on retiring to the privacy of a decently darkened room and stay there, only to emerge several months hence with a swaddled infant."

Lifting both eyebrows this time, he pursed his lips. "You intend to continue working?"

"Darling, _of course_ I intend to continue working," she stood, walked around to his side and sliding her arms about his waist.

"I am perfectly fine now that the headaches are explained," she rested her face against his chest. "I promise to take every care, and that I will stop work the moment I need to do so," she looked up into his face. "I honestly promise."

Still not entirely happy with the idea, Mycroft looked down into a pair of dancing brown eyes.

"You will at least suspend your Hapkido and that mad, frenetic freeform you call dancing?" he asked. "Please tell me you had planned to do that?"

Walking back in her seat, Cate made a face.

"I suppose I shall have to," she said, unenthusiastic about the idea even though it really was the only thing to do. "But I don't feel at my best without some form of exercise," she added. "I could take up swimming, but the University pool is always packed, and the nearest public pool is too far away," she sighed. "There's always the Serpentine, I suppose."

"You are not going to use a public pool," Mycroft folded his arms now, his expression fairly definite. "Nor are you going anywhere near the Serpentine."

"Without exercise, I shall turn into a cetacean," she muttered, balefully. "A particularly _fat_ one."

Mycroft smiled. The idea of Cate being anything other than her slim, agile self was difficult to grasp and farcical to imagine. "I believe we might be able to find some accommodation there," he smiled even more as an idea presented itself.

After all, he reasoned, she _had_ given him _carte blanche_.

###

Just after dawn on the fourth day of the local conflict, the Armenian Army arrived in Akhtala.

At first, it was a matter of truck-engines and loud shouting. People were tired of one army after another rolling into the area, and they let their displeasure be known.

The first death didn't occur until two days later, but by then, it was far too late to try and keep the event quiet.

It was all over the regional and National news. Watching her satellite-transmission television, Talina Sarkis smiled as she saw CNN news report of the sudden and unexpected unrest in a hitherto quiet and rural area of the Caucasian mountains.

_Good_. It was good. He would be unable to resist, now. _She would have him soon._

She rolled the wedding-ring around her finger again.

Its twin sat on the right hand of Mycroft Holmes, and she would have him soon.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

_Twenty Weeks – A Possible Princess – C__rème __Brûlée__ – Vienna Calls – A Different Way – An Unexpected Guest – The Solitary House – A Room of Glass – A Probable Genius – The Man From Yerevan._

#

#

The Jaguar was driving along Brompton Road, heading back towards Whitehall following a meeting in Kensington Palace Gardens with several representatives of a certain Eastern-European nation. Something very strange was happening in a remote corner of their world, but the effects were being felt even here, in London.

Dwelling more on the information he'd just been given, rather than anything beyond the confines of the vehicle, Mycroft was only vaguely aware they were approaching London's premier and most iconic emporium.

On a momentary whimsy, he decided. "Pull in here, please," he directed his driver. "I should not be overly long."

Stepping inside the establishment that was, irrespective of ownership, still one of London's great merchant-icons, his eyes flicked over the brightly-lit store guide on the nearest wall. Apparently, he required the fourth-floor and an area conveniently adjacent to a lift. Locating the requisite service, Mycroft found himself suddenly and rather conspicuously, the only visible male in the maternity section of Harrods.

Several women smiled at him in a slightly knowing way as he stood, umbrella in hand, in the middle of the floor looking for … _ah_. A young woman dressed in what was clearly the uniform _du jour_, approached. She was also wearing an odd smile.

"May I offer you some assistance?" she asked, her name tag declaring her to be _Jody Clemence_.

"I hope you may, Ms Clemence," Mycroft swept his view around the department. "I desire the delivery of a layette."

"Certainly, Sir," the smiling Jody nodded happily, indicating that he might wish to follow her to the appropriate area. "And will this be for a boy or a girl?"

Mycroft paused. "At that age is there any significant difference?"

Not missing a beat, the young woman looked serious. "Both philosophically and physically, we prefer to customise our services to the needs of each of our clients, no matter how young they may be," she said. Walking over to two vertical spiral racks, she waved at the one to her left. "For our very youngest gentlemen," she smiled, lifting up a soft, hunter-green one-piece; its tiny body fitting happily into Mycroft's long palm.

It seemed exceptionally small. "This is the normal size?" Mycroft held the morsel of velvety cotton up to his eyes. "Surely not?"

Jody Clemence smiled even more. "And for the loveliest of our young ladies," she said, turning to the spiral on her right, selecting a similar garment, but in daffodil-yellow, with several layers of feather-soft cream lace creating the effect of a dainty dress.

As he held the doll-sized creation of yellow froth in his other hand, Mycroft felt his stomach turn a slow somersault. _To have a daughter. To be the father of a daughter_.

A daughter would be like Cate, he suddenly realised. She would be dark-haired and dark-eyed and she would light a room with her laughter. Two such creatures in his world might be impossible to bear with equanimity, but he would manage, somehow. _Dear God_, he thought. _I want a daughter_.

His chest tightening almost to the point of discomfort, he swallowed. Cleared his throat.

"I take your point, Ms Clemence," he handed both items back. "I am unsure when gender might be a known quantity, but at that point, I will have my assistant contact you to make the appropriate arrangements," he nodded. "My card."

"Around twenty weeks or so is usually the time you will be asked to choose," taking his business card, she lifted her eyebrows and smiled again.

_Twenty weeks?_ _Choose? Choose what?_ Mycroft's puzzlement must have been plain.

"Whether you wish to know the sex of the baby," she tilted her head sideways, smiling that same strange little smile.

Nodding again, Mycroft made his way back towards the lift. Cate's first ultrasound was scheduled for the following afternoon. He intended to be there.

###

She sounded preoccupied when he called from his office. "Something wrong?" he asked, casually.

"Not really," Julia sighed down the phone as she signed-off yet another leave application approval. "It's silly, actually."

Lestrade waited. He was yet to witness her do anything foolish.

"You know," she said, "there's been that stuff in the news about riots in northern Armenia; the army going in and all that?"

"The world news is more your thing than mine, but _yeah_," Greg nodded. He had heard, although hadn't paid it that much heed.

"My family came from there," she said.

"What, _recently_?" Lestrade was trying to work out how she could have become a D.I. so fast.

"_No_, you idiot," Garret shook her head at the other end of the conversation. "Back in 1918, when the Russians left, my great great great Grandfather came to England because he had supported the Tsar and he wouldn't have lasted very long if he stayed."

"So," Greg frowned as he worked his way through this new information. "Your family used to be aristocrats?"

"Very _minor_ nobility," Julia laughed. "Armenian Tsarists, but not exalted ones, although I think a long-distant uncle was one of Nicholas' hunting companions."

"Nicholas being … oh. _Really_?"

"The last Tsar of all the Russias, yes," Julia nodded

"Garret's not an Armenian name, though, is it?" Greg ran a list through his brain. "Lots of ex-pat Russians over here, but can't recall any called Garret."

"No, but _Garin_ is," Julia sounded distant again. "The family changed the name when they settled in Portsmouth."

"And what's all this got to do with what's happening in Armenia?" Lestrade was curious now.

"Oh, I forgot to say," Garret added. "The town at the centre of all the trouble is where the family used to live. I still have cousins there."

"So, and let me get this straight," at his desk, Lestrade lifted a hand in thought. "A hundred years ago, your slightly noble family had to leave Armenia because you supported the Russian Emperor, yes?"

"Pretty much, yes."

Greg sat back and thought some more.

"So I've been having dinner with someone from a noble family? _A Lady_? Maybe even a Princess? _Wow_," Greg almost laughed down the phone as he pictured her scowling at his enthusiasm. "My Princess," he added, smiling. "Have dinner with a poor commoner tonight?"

Garret was silent for a few seconds and Lestrade wondered if he'd gone too far.

"Still improving," she observed. "Still not going to work."

###

His fingers lay softly against warm flesh. There was a definite swelling, a firm roundness that made him want to stroke the delicate skin until he had committed the new contours to memory.

Lying in bed together that evening was really the first time he'd had an opportunity to do this. He was fascinated.

"I cannot understand how I failed to observe this before," Mycroft stroked his palm over the small but increasingly noticeable bump that had appeared above Cate's pelvic cradle. He would be willing to swear it hadn't been there two days previously. He stared at it, as if expecting it to grow as he watched.

"Apparently a baby grows very quickly at this stage," Cate put down the Stoppard text she'd picked up at the bookshop the previous day. "There can be noticeable differences from week to week."

Cate rested the book beside her and made a face. "Morning sickness can begin almost immediately, though."

"Have you been feeling nauseous?" he asked, immediately checking if she were pale.

"Nary a once," Cate lifted her eyebrows and shook her head. "Haven't felt so much as a twinge, which is why all this has been such a surprise."

"When will it be twenty weeks?" Mycroft lowered his head again to look at Cate's belly transversely, the prominence seemingly more pronounced from that angle.

"I have absolutely no idea, my love," Cate lifted her eyebrows. For a man who had expressed not the slightest interest in children before this, he had taken to the notion of approaching fatherhood with unexpected zeal. "I suspect we might discover that tomorrow."

"I'll have the car collect you at two-thirty," he lifted his head and smiled at her. "And afterwards, shall we have tea at the Dorchester?"

Cate smiled. He was being so solicitous. "That would be dreamy," she pushed back the lock of his hair which always seemed to have a life of its own. "I only hope you don't find all this too dreadfully boring," she sighed. "There's a good few months of this ahead, you know."

Bringing himself level with her against the pillows of their bed, Mycroft pressed his lips against the angle of her jaw, inhaling her scent.

He stopped, sniffed gently, then inhaled deeply again.

"Are you using a new soap or lotion?" he asked. "New perfume?"

"Nothing new and no," Cate smiled at him. "I had not thought to add perfume to my nightly regimen but I can if you wish."

"It's just that," he pressed his face into the side of her neck, breathing her in again, "you smell of crème brûlée."

Lifting her hand, Cate sniffed the skin. _Nothing_. She could smell nothing unusual.

"I think you're imagining things," she picked up the Stoppard again. "I wonder if there's anything in here about how pregnancy affects one's partner's sense of smell."

"It's burnt caramel," Mycroft insisted. "And it's incredible," he added, holding her shoulders, and bringing her close so he could inhale the fragrance. "Astonishing."

Being moved bodily in his arms so he could sniff various areas of skin, Cate started to giggle.

"_Tickles_," she squirmed as his breath caught a particularly sensitive patch at the nape of her neck.

"You smell entirely appetising," his voice dropped into a low drawl that tickled in an utterly different way as his mouth drifted down the side of her neck.

Relaxing happily into his embrace, Cate opened her eyes in surprise as she felt him lay her gently back against the pillows and shift away.

"You need your sleep," he said in a more normal tone of voice. Looking up, she saw him raise his eyebrows sheepishly. She was mystified.

"You don't want to make love?" she asked, hesitantly. "You consider me unattractive like this?"

Tilting his head forward and giving her _that_ look, Mycroft exhaled slowly. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable," he offered quietly.

"Oh, _God_, Mycroft,' Cate sat up. For a brilliant man, he was such a ninny. "It'll be _months_ before we have to think about that," she said, lifting one of his hands to the side of her face. "At which point I shall rely upon your inventiveness to ensure there is no discomfort for either of us."

Pressing his palm to her mouth, she kissed from the heel of his hand to the tip of his middle finger, smiling as she felt him tense against her.

"Now either you kiss me properly, or I shall continue reading what the Stoppard woman has to say about conception," she paused, picking up the text. "It's really quite an excellent piece of research, with illustrations and everythi…"

His long fingers pulled the book away and dropped it unceremoniously onto the floor, as his other arm slid around her back, drawing her closer against him. He inhaled her strange, exotic perfume.

"I think it a little late to be reading about conception," he murmured, finding her mouth and kissing his deliciously-scented wife into a perfect swoon.

###

Despite what she had told Mycroft, Cate was well aware that she might have to cease work sooner rather than later. Whether it was a psychological issue or not, the tiredness she'd been feeling recently, that she'd attributed to the pressure of her workload, was not going away. If she felt weary now, what was it going to be like in a few months' time?

She knew she was eating properly, although she might benefit from a little more red meat in her diet, but other than that, what she was eating was perfectly fine. She hadn't touched alcohol since Pilly Torres had given her the news, although the desire for a chilled glass of champagne floated occasionally around her thoughts.

The HR department of the University had been perfectly understanding and warmly congratulating, especially when she advised them that she'd hoped to keep working for as long as possible. Perhaps that had been an overly ambitious plan. They had made it clear she could cease work whenever she felt a desire to do so.

Cate had made a list of all the tasks she had lined up. She'd already managed to relocate her two new PhD candidates – they were such beginners that at this stage, it wasn't terribly critical who in the department took them over. Her other PhDs had been a little more difficult, and a couple had been willing to either defer their research until she returned, or simply accept a caretaker supervisor until she felt ready to deal with them herself. Flattering though this was, Cate couldn't allow any candidate to work with her open-ended absence, and had tried hard to set them up with the very best replacement supervisors. It was a little sad: she had worked with some of these people for more than two years.

The monograph would still be there when she returned, and there was already a contingency plan in place should any senior teaching academic be unable to meet their lecturing commitments, so even that wasn't an issue. There really was just the one thing she'd have to try and manage, and that was the conference in Vienna.

The thing was to be held actually at the University of Vienna itself, the Department of Comparative Literatures at the _Universitätsring_, a magnificent construct and the largest tertiary institution in all of Central Europe. The buildings alone were works of art; massive great auditoriums of stupendous architecture and sculpture. It was one of her favourite Continental universities, and she had been looking forward to the conference for the last six-months. If there was any possible way for her to keep her commitment to the event, she would. She'd just have to make sure Mycroft didn't see her get too tired.

The trip to Austria was set for ten-weeks hence: would she be up for it? Cate wasn't sure, but she'd bloody well give it a good try.

In the meantime, she sighed, turning to the pile of paperwork that seemed to accumulate the instant she left her office, she'd better get this lot out of the way before the car came for her.

She wanted to make sure she had plenty of energy.

###

The PRA, with Army support, had worked to cordon the area, effectively closing all traffic either in or out of Akhtala. Both the local and foreign press were excluded. _Too dangerous_, the Chief of Police muttered, shaking his head. Houses were searched; people were arrested; weapons were confiscated.

Everything was buttoned down, hushed.

In the quiet of her hillside mansion, Talina Sarkis hurled an eighteenth-century Sèvres bowl at the wall, the splintering crash of hard ceramic a feeble sop to her foul mood.

She had almost succeeded.

She needed a different way.

She needed help.

###

The car let them alight onto the pavement outside a Harley Street specialist clinic: a team of well-known obstetricians with a Royal Warrant.

"We have a small crew here," Mr Andrew Roget, a Consultant Obstetrician at St Charlotte's Hospital, also had extraordinarily white teeth, Cate noticed. "We tend to get to know everyone quite well and it's a little like an extended family for a while," he smiled again. "We're here to give you any help and support you need, whenever you need it."

"Whenever?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"_Indeed_," Roget nodded quite willingly, looking at Cate. "If you experience discomfort or untoward symptoms in the middle-of-the night, there's a twenty-four-hour phone service that will alert us immediately and someone will be at your house, usually within thirty-minutes, if you're in London."

"That's comforting. This is a first for both of us," she said. "Frankly, it's caught us on the hop and neither of us have much idea what to expect."

Roget grinned. "At least you're being sensible about it all," he raised his eyebrows. "Shall we move into the surgery and get you ready for the ultrasound?"

Within seconds of him pressing a discreet button, a nurse popped her head around the door, smiling.

"Would you like to come this way, Mrs Holmes?" she said. "I'll get you organised in a jiffy.

Mycroft remained in the consulting room with the doctor.

"I confess to being a little concerned for my wife," he sighed. "She's a senior professor at London College University and is reluctant to cease work," he paused. "Not sure what to do about it, actually."

Nodding his understanding, the specialist linked his fingers.

"Your wife appears to be a pragmatic, rational person," he said. "The only reason she might actually need to leave work this early is if there's an issue that might affect her, or the baby's health – and we can find that out shortly. Other than that," Roget shrugged, "there's really no problem with her working as long as she feels up to it."

"Really?" Mycroft sounded sceptical. "I understand she falls into one of the 'at risk' groups as an older first pregnancy?"

"This is true," Roget nodded again. "And she should begin to take thing a little more easily, but not to the point of becoming sedentary, which is possibly worse than being overly-active." Standing, he smiled confidently. "I tend to look at the individual's lifestyle and how fit and healthy they are before I begin to focus on excessive risks," he shrugged a little. "There really are no hard-and-fast generalisations in this business."

Leaving his overcoat and umbrella in the outer room, Mycroft followed Roget into the inner surgery where Cate, dressed in a comfortably draped gown, was already lying up on a high bed.

"Just relax, Professor Holmes," the doctor washed his hands and indicated the technology, explaining the process. "You might find the contact-gel a little cool," he said, lifting it out of the jar of heated water where it had been warming for several minutes. It didn't take long before Roget was holding the head of the scanner pressed gently against her stomach.

"Tell me if this is even a little uncomfortable, please," he said, moving the wand and checking the readings on the monitor.

Cate searched for Mycroft's hand with her own. She was suddenly unbearably anxious. _What if there was a problem? What if he was to say something dreadful?_

The comforting squeeze of Mycroft's warm fingers enable her to take a deep breath and relax a fraction as she strained to see anything on the scanner screen.

Laying a flat stethoscope on her stomach just above the bump, Roget smiled up at them both. "Ready for this?" he asked, grinning a little. He flicked a switch.

Almost immediately, there was a soft but rapid, pattering beat. Mycroft suddenly felt his fingers being squeezed a great deal harder.

"Is that a heartbeat?" Cate's voice was husky.

"Absolutely right, it is," the obstetrician moved the scanner-wand across a little before turning the monitor more fully for them to see.

There was a light, rounded shape inside a dark hollow. Though diminutive, it was already clearly visible as a small body.

"I'd say thirteen-weeks, give or take a couple of days," he said. "Smallish, but very nicely developed," Roget looked pleased. "Not sure yet, _but_ …" he said, moving the wand a little and increasing the magnification. "How soon would you like to know the gender of your child?" he grinned widely.

"You can tell already?" Cate was overwhelmed. She'd read that it would be weeks before such specific identification could be made.

"Usually not," the specialist said. "But this one, though small, is very well developed for its size. We'd need to confirm it in subsequent scans, but I can tell you fairly categorically now, if you'd be interested?"

Looking briefly up at Mycroft who nodded once, Cate turned back to Roget. "Yes please."

"At this early stage," the man looked back at the screen. "It's already clear that you have a boy," he smiled again. "Congratulations."

Mycroft's heart fluttered briefly. _A son_. A wave of heat rose through him, blurring his eyesight for a second. He blinked rapidly and it faded. _Cate was giving him a son._ His breath caught in his chest. _Oh, God, Cate. _A son_. His son_.

"_Darling_," he whispered, unable to do anything about the smile on his lips. "_How wonderful_."

Roget was about to offer another positive comment when something in the heartbeat caught his attention. Frowning slightly, he moved the stethoscope over towards Cate's left side, returning the wand to that section of her belly. He moved the scanner in increasingly small arcs for a moment. The sound of the heart muffled for a moment, then returned, but at a slightly faster speed.

Mycroft felt his fingers being squashed again.

"Is there a problem?" his voice was arid. If anything went wrong now, Cate would be inconsolable.

"Hang on … _one_ … moment …" Roget busied himself with the wand and monitor, adjusting the stethoscope a fraction until the faint beat strengthened.

He turned the monitor back to their eyes. Another grin on his face.

"Looks like you have another guest,' he said, pointing to a second, smaller shape hiding directly behind the first.

"This is why the first one is small yet so well developed," he nodded. "You have at least two in there."

"_At least two?_" Cate squeaked. "_How many more could there be?_"

Mycroft bit back a grunt of pain as her grip threatened to cause semi-permanent damage.

"I think no more than two," Roget smiled. "But let's just check, shall we?"

There were only the two, for which Mycroft was thankful, if only for the sake of his fingers.

"The second one is quite tiny," the specialist frowned a little. "I'll ask you not to get engaged with the idea of having two babies, just yet," he added. "With twins it's sometimes the case that only the larger of the two will actually reach term, especially if the second is very small, so you need to be prepared for that to happen, I'm afraid."

"Can you see the gender of the second one?" Cate was barely listening, a tremble running through her that could have been excitement or anxiety.

"No, I'm afraid not," the doctor shook his head. "That one's a little less developed and just too small right now, but I'd like you to come in for weekly scans until we're sure we know what's happening here."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Cate's eyes were glued to the monitor, to the second twin. "I don't want to lose either of them."

"There's nothing you can do that will affect the outcome," Roget took a deep breath. "Sometimes it's simply nature's way of ensuring the strongest survives and you have to understand that it's no-one's fault if that happens," he said. "However," he looked optimistic. "Both heartbeats are strong and regular, and both, despite their size, seem to be following the conventional development path, so" he shook his head a little, "it's impossible to say."

"Would it help if I stayed in bed and rested completely?" Cate was about ready to consider anything if it might help.

Roget looked up at Mycroft before answering.

"Bed-rest will not change the outcome in this case," he said carefully. "If only one foetus is to survive, then nothing you or I can do will alter that outcome at this stage. And as for staying at work … _well_," he added, honestly. "That depends entirely on how you feel. Are you getting tired? You probably will, hosting the two of them."

"A little," Cate sighed. "I noticed it earlier today."

At her side, Mycroft took the opportunity to squeeze _her_ fingers, pointedly clearing his throat.

"I was only a little tired, darling," she said, twisting her head to look up at him.

"You should stop work," he said. "Seriously."

"I really want to get to Vienna for the conference," she said. "It will be my last one for quite some time, and I'd really like to go."

Sighing in exasperation, Mycroft looked to the doctor for support. Roget smiled, shaking his head. "How about a compromise?" he suggested. "Can you work part-time or work from home on certain days?"

Cate thought about it. The HR people had seemed perfectly accommodating. As long as her lecturing responsibilities were covered, she could still prepare for the conference either at home or in her office. It was possible. It could be done.

"I'll try and arrange it," she nodded.

Mycroft breathed deeply with relief. If there was any difficulty, he'd have a quiet word with Charles Shelsher: Cate was not going to risk either her health or the health of … good grief; the knowledge sank in … _two_ babies?

With her fingers laced through his, Cate spent the brief drive to the Dorchester in thoughtful silence.

It was only after they'd been shown to their table and an order taken, that she smiled slowly into his eyes.

"I quite like 'Julius'," she said. "After your great-grandfather."

"The General?" Mycroft sat back as the waiter poured tea for them both. "You don't think the name a trifle archaic?"

"My love," Cate surveyed the cakes. They were beyond sinful, but if she couldn't have a glass of champagne, then she was damn well going to have a cake to celebrate. "Being a teacher, the one thing I know without fear of contradiction, is that the clever ones like to be at least a little different."

"You assume our son … _my son, my son_ … will be clever?" Mycroft smiled quietly as he sipped his Earl Grey.

Cate made a gentle scoffing noise. "I can't imagine him anything else, with you as his father," she selected a fluffy meringue, piled outrageously with fresh strawberries and cream. "And with Sherlock as an uncle, he's not going to stand a chance at normality, is he ..?"

Forgetting the confection completely, Cate stared, wordless, into Mycroft's widening blue eyes as the thought hit them simultaneously.

_Uncle_ _Sherlock_.

###

Ara Chakarian found the old ways coming back to him very quickly. The subtle half-questions; the delicate contraflow of deception, the lies.

He had arrived in Akhtala the previous afternoon, only one day after martial-law had been lifted from the area following several weeks of the army's imposed _cordon sanitaire_. He was already making contact with people who might reasonably be assumed to _know_ things. Who _knew_ people.

The professor spoke to the recent widow of one of the older members of the town-council: her husband had been one of the few fatalities following the arrival of the armed forces.

The widow had much to say.

It was after the conversation, as he was walking back to his hotel, that he lifted his eyes to a solitary house, a large house, half-way up the hill overlooking the village. The windows were shuttered and reflected blindly in the evening light, as if the structure was determined to ignore everything in the valley below it.

With a thoughtful look on his face, he walked to the nearest café for dinner.

He wanted to know who lived in that house.

###

"Are you sure you wouldn't like another cup of tea, darling?" Mycroft sat back in his comfortable chair, steepling his fingers.

Still seated at the Dorchester's Promenade, it was his expression that made Cate realise he was stalling for time. He was being far too deliberate. She relaxed. He was up to something.

"_So_, _Meester Holmes_," she pulled the old, awful Russian accent out of her pocket. It always seemed to make him smile. "_I see you are playing anozzer of your quaint Engleesh games wizz me_," she paused, hooding her eyes and looking mysterious. "_You must know by now zat I am not easy to fool_." Cate paused, leaning forward across the small table. "_Tell me your secret and I will be gentle with you, later._"

"Later?" Mycroft refused to be drawn, doing his best to remain impassive.

"_Later_," Cate growled. "_When you are entirely in my powers and begging for my attentions._"

Lifting his eyebrows, Mycroft shook his head, in high spirits. With Cate for a mother, their son would have an interesting life, if nothing else.

He checked his Hunter, sliding it back into his waistcoat. It was after four-thirty. They could go home now.

Holding her coat, he offered Cate his arm. She smiled up at him, relatively at peace after the surprises of the day. Whatever happened, happened. She was determined not to look too far ahead, and not to over-think the situation. She would, however, arrange things so that her fingers remained permanently crossed for the next several weeks.

The Jaguar was waiting to drop them back at the townhouse as the evening drew in. It was unseasonably cold, there had been more snow than usual and it had lain on the chilled ground for longer.

Stopping her in the hallway of their home, Mycroft took both her hands in his.

"I have a surprise for you, darling and it's through the kitchen," he smiled. "Will you trust me and close your eyes once we get there?"

_So there was something going on_. _But the only thing through the kitchen was the exit to the garden courtyard …_

Putting one hand over her eyes as she stepped into the warm kitchen, Cate held onto his hand with the other as he led her carefully towards the back of the house.

There was a faint smell – something out of place in here – _plastic_? _Rubber_ of some kind? Definitely a non-kitchen aroma.

Bringing her to a standstill, Mycroft steadied her with his hand in the small of her back.

"You may look now," he said. She heard the quiet pleasure in his voice.

Opening her eyes, it took Cate a couple of seconds to realise what it was she saw.

The back door into the courtyard had gone.

The entire section of wall had gone, replaced with floor-to-ceiling glass. The other side of the glass was an entirely new room; a glass room.

A glass room full of fitness equipment and a huge, rectangular container taking up most of the space along the far side of the new transparent construction. Beyond that, on the other side of the glass, was the scant remains of their courtyard – now less than half its previous width, yet still ornamented with a dozen large, gardenia-filled, sandstone urns. There was even a container of them inside the new room, buds of the carefully shaped shrub already swelling, tiny swirls of creamy-white breaking through. _Gardenia Jasminoides_. Her favourite.

Mycroft had created a private gym for her. A refuge.

Cate couldn't find the words yet, she simply looked.

"That frightful-looking thing at the back is a swimming-spa," he nodded. "Apparently you can swim for hour upon hour if you wish, and go absolutely nowhere."

He turned to examine her expression, lifting her hand to his lips. "I want you safe and healthy and happy," he stroked her fingers. "You are most precious to me."

Her throat constricted at the intensity of feeling in his voice. She took a deep breath so as not to weep outright and embarrass herself appallingly. She held his hand tight.

"How did you manage to have all this done in one day?" Keeping her voice controlled, Cate stepped towards what looked like the door, only to stop as a complete section of glass slid silently to one side. The air within the room held heavier hints of steel and machine-oil and the faintest tang of chlorine: smells of newness, of recent manufacture. There was a large plasma television standing on a tall base unit at one side. A compact Bang & Olufson sound-system stood on a separate base nearby. She observed a number of small speakers located strategically around the glass ceiling. He had thought of everything.

"The spa uses salt to produce chlorine," Mycroft looked satisfied. "No untoward chemicals."

Still not sure of what words to use, Cate stepped inside the glass compartment, her fingers touching the elliptical exerciser, a treadmill, and, looking like something out of a medieval dungeon, a Pilates machine. The cover of the spa was down, but at the press of a button, Mycroft had the entire thing lift and fold away. There was a double-railed ladder at one of the narrow ends. All she had to do was walk up a few steps and then down into the spa itself. It was massive – the water already steaming and ready to flow in a current against which she could swim to her heart's content. It was amazing. It was unthinkable. How had he managed to get all this done in the space of a single day?

It was _unbelievable_.

"This is too much," she whispered, laying her fingers against his chest. "You give me too much."

Mycroft looked at her, his eyes a sapphire glow.

"You have already given me far more," he murmured, brushing her hand with his fingers. "An entire future, my darling Catie."

She leaned against his chest. "There are times when I quite like you, you know," she pressed her face into his waistcoat.

His arms wrapped slowly around her body as he held her to him, unable to speak. "_Darling_."

"I still like Julius," she whispered. "But what if the other is a girl?"

Mycroft felt his head spin again. _A daughter. Oh, sweet God_.

"We were advised not bank on there being a second one, remember?"

Cate was thoughtful. "I think there will be two," she said. "I have a feeling."

"In that case …" Mycroft smiled. "_If_ we were to have two, and _if_ the other is a girl, I've always liked 'Blythe'," he rubbed his nose self-consciously. "Although," he added, "a second one could just as easily be another boy."

"There are enough male Holmes' about the place," Cate arched an eyebrow. "I think it time you chaps had a few women around to keep you on the straight and narrow."

Mycroft smiled again, sliding his arms fully around her. "I feel sorry for every other man on this planet," he said, quietly.

"And why is that, my darling?" Cate rested her hands against the middle of his back.

"Because not a single one of them will ever get to know you the way I know you," he said. "They will never have any opportunity to discover how wonderful you are because I intend to keep you all to myself, forever."

"Promise?"

"I swear it," Mycroft leaned down and kissed her, breathing deeper as Cate tightened her hold.

There was far too much emotion in her head right now to deal with everything. She needed somewhere to put it before she imploded.

"Take me to bed, Mycroft," she whispered.

###

"It doesn't matter, we still have to tell him," Cate rang the doorbell of 221 Baker Street.

"I have a key, you realise," Mycroft held it up for her to see.

"Sherlock gave you a key to his flat?" Cate lifted her eyebrows. "Really?"

Replacing the offending item, Mycroft assumed an expression of injured innocence as he waited for the door to open.

It was John.

"Oh, _hello_, Mycroft, Cate," the blonde man nodded. "You don't usually wait on the formality of actually ringing the bell," he grinned at the elder Holmes. "So this must be Cate's doing," he smiled. "Come on in. I'll make some tea."

Sherlock was standing in the middle of the living-room, bent forward on a small patch of bare carpet, the remainder of the floor being entirely covered in yellow post-it notes. There were dozens of the things.

"Case?" Mycroft began removing his gloves as he sat Cate in Sherlock's favourite _le Corbusier_.

"Apparent murder-suicide," Sherlock lifting his eyes to his brother's, frowning, turning to nod at Cate. "Why are you here?" he asked, standing suddenly upright. "Why are you _both_ here, in fact?"

"I think someone of your intellectual magnificence could probably deduce it, O Favourite Brother-in-Law," Cate leaned back, smiling.

The younger Holmes stared at her, flicking his gaze to his brother and back to her.

"You're pregnant," he said in surprise.

"Indeed we are," Mycroft accepted a mug of tea as John handed another to Cate.

"_Pregnant_? Well done!" the doctor gave them a genuine smile. "How far along are you?"

"About thirteen weeks, give or take," Cate smiled back. "We only got the details yesterday. It was a bit of a shock."

"And you already know it's a boy?" Sherlock looked even more surprised. "I believe an offer of congratulations is the social norm at this point." Walking over the scattered notes, regardless of their placement, Sherlock bent at the waist and placed a gently fraternal kiss on her cheek.

"Sincerest congratulations, my nicest of all Sisters-in-Law," he smiled fleetingly. Turning to his brother, he took a breath before holding out his right hand.

"Congratulations, Mycroft," he offered. "Another Holmes genius. Mother would have been pleased."

With a carefully impassive expression, Mycroft took the offered hand, shaking it lightly. "_Genius_?" he queried, one eyebrow raised.

A fractional smile curving his lips, Sherlock nodded.

"What details would be expressively _shocking_ after thirteen-weeks gestation?" he asked quietly. "All foetuses' are by default, female until they begin to develop male characteristics around that time or even later. Cate already knew she was pregnant, hence the scan, therefore that fact in itself could not be shocking, but discovering that she was carrying a male child would likely have registered as something higher than surprise on her emotional Richter-scale. To have a clear definition already of gender argues that the baby is exceptionally well-developed for such an early stage. All the most recent research suggested that significantly early foetal development is not merely a physical development, but an intellectual one also. If the baby is so early recognisable as male, it must be well-advanced. If so physically advanced, then mentally too, _ergo_," he blinked slowly. "A probable genius."

"I'm carrying a genius?" Cate really did sound shocked.

"_Possibly_," Mycroft looked apologetic.

"_Probably_," Sherlock looked pleased.

"Thinking about baby names yet?" John smiled. "I have an idea."

###

He had been asking all sorts of questions; _outsider_ questions. The sort of questions that only someone with a larger remit would ask, someone who wanted the information for things _bigger_ than the knowledge itself.

Talina Sarkis uncoiled herself from the _chaise-longue_, walking to her bedroom. If she were to be able to use this man, she would need to play this oh so very carefully: another opportunity might not come along for a long time, and she had already waited far longer than she desired.

Throwing open the door to her wardrobe, she stalked in, looking for the perfect outfit to wear in order to bedazzle this stranger from the Capital.

Gliding past silks and satins and lace, Talina stopped short, laughing when she saw what she would be wearing tonight.

The man from Yerevan wouldn't stand a chance.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

_Vanilla and Salt – Mr Holmes Is Rather Pleased – Childrenswear - Teller of Fortunes – Lost Sheep and Vodka – Emotional Blackmail – Grape Juice and a Surprise – Passport and a Ticket._

_#_

_#_

According to the nifty little calendar the Harley Street clinic had given her, she was at seventeen weeks. Her abdomen was definitively convex and she was beginning to notice a little additional weight when she stood.

Yet all was apparently, well. She'd had four scans over the last month, and in each one, both little shapes were still in there, their diminutive hearts still racing along at breakneck speeds. Upon waking every morning since that first revelation, Cate had performed a reflective evaluation of her internal self, assessing how she felt and _what_ she felt. Other than getting bigger and a little heavier, nothing seemed to have changed that much. There was still no sickness, for which she was incredibly grateful; still not the slightest discomfort other than the increasing weight and a vaguely cumbersome shape. Fortunately, she didn't seem to be adding weight anywhere else yet and though her breasts were no larger, they felt distinctly _more_.

She was due for another scan this afternoon, but this morning she was edgy, tense and distracted. Mycroft had gone to his office, promising to return at lunch-time in order to be with her for this scan, as he had for all the others thus far. She wondered how much of this attendance was his own genuine curiosity, and how much was his desire to be with her in case of bad news.

She had tried just about everything she could think of to ease the inner agitation.

First, she began sorting through piles of her books, putting them back into some sort of logical shelf-order, a task she found almost inevitably relaxing. Currently holding Aristotle's _Poetics_, the _Natya Shastra_ and a couple of Russian Formalists, Cate searched for their correct places, but she was too impatient and dropped them on a shelf.

Then she made some tea, but abandoned her cup after a couple of sips. She didn't really want tea. She opened her laptop, checking her emails and RSS feeds, but that didn't take very long and she was in no mood to either read or research anything. What was the matter with her? She almost never felt like this – she had always been too busy to have the time for … _ah_.

That might be exactly it: too much time. But knowledge of the problem didn't necessarily fix it. There was still something wrong and she needed to find out what it was before she went mad.

Still feeling tense, she closed her laptop and thought about watching some television.

Daytime television was as bad as she'd heard, though there were a couple of films on that she hadn't seen before, but their timing was inconvenient – she wanted to distract her brain _now_, not later in the day.

Increasingly restless, Cate threw the Radio Times on a sofa and wandered into the kitchen. She didn't feel hungry, nor was there anything to clean – Nora Compton was fastidious about her work. There wasn't anything she needed to do, and there wasn't anything she _wanted_ to do.

Perhaps if she were to burn off some of the edginess, it might help. Changing into a faded Queen t-shirt and a soft, stretchy pair of old bike-shorts that would never be the same after accommodating her gravid belly, she stepped into her own private space.

Still marvelling that Mycroft could have done all this without fuss and in total secrecy, Cate already treasured the place. Flicking on some of her most raucous electronica, with a beat that went on forever, she spent the next thirty minutes on the elliptical working up a nice glowing heat. She was already feeling less twitchy as she glugged half-a-litre of water, and was debating whether to have a relaxing swim when she heard the front door close.

Towelling the worst of the dampness from around her brow and neck, she slung the towel over her shoulder and went in search of her husband.

Walking unheralded into his office, she saw Mycroft perched on the edge of his desk, immaculate as always in a dove-grey waistcoated-suit, flipping rapidly through the pages of a stapled report. Even from the doorway, she could smell his cologne and the familiar essence of his skin. She sniffed the air. He smelled good. Exceptionally good.

Seeing her enter, he looked up, smiling as he laid the pages down on the desk behind him, watching her walk closer, a movement still fluid and elegant despite her changing shape.

"_Hello, my love_." Even though she had rearranged her working hours with the University and now did most of her writing away from the campus, he was still irrationally happy to see her at home. His smile changed slowly as he registered she wasn't smiling back.

"What's the matter?" he asked, noting her workout gear, her flushed skin and bright eyes. "Something wrong?"

"Not at all," Cate's voice was quiet. She stared at him intently as her tension suddenly crystallised.

Narrowing his eyes, Mycroft observed a certain look arrive on her face. He knew that look. But it was the middle of the day … he stood, wondering.

Undulating towards him, Cate felt the remaining restlessness solidify in her chest. She still wanted … _needed_ ... something. Close now, to Mycroft's lean height, to his enticing smell, she realised what she needed … was _him_.

A reckless smile curved the corners of her lips as her warmed, slightly damp skin began to tingle with desire. The feel of him … of his voice. Of his hands. Of his mouth. Cate sucked in a slow breath and placed a palm flat against his shirt to the left of his tie.

"_Husband_," she murmured. Looking up, she focused on his dark blue eyes. Accepting their piercing assessment, she smiled enigmatically. "_I want_ …"

As the scorching heat of her hand travelled through the fine weave to the skin beneath, Mycroft felt his heart thud. Staring down into Cate's glowing face, at the wisps of her dark hair sticking lightly to moist skin, the natural perfume of her body made him dizzy. A single bead of sweat trickled down the outside of her eye.

It set him on fire.

Leaning forward, he licked it away.

"You taste of vanilla and salt," he said, watching her pupils turn into black mirrors and her lips part. A tiny pulse quickened in the fine skin of her throat as she tipped her head back to meet his gaze. Her eyes seemed huge as they laughed at him, challenged him. _Invited him_. Moving closer, Mycroft ran a hand around the back of her head, his veins rushing with abrupt heat.

Keeping her eyes locked on his, Cate leaned close, her head tipping further back, her lips curving into a deep smile as his mouth caught her mid-breath.

Wrapped in his arms, Mycroft held her still, kissing her until she trembled, until she groaned softly against him, demanding his touch, seeking absolute closeness.

"You are going to be the death of me," he muttered as she tightened her arms around his neck.

"But such a wonderful way to go," she groaned again, dragging him down to the nearest sofa.

###

"And how are you both this week?" Andrew Roget smiled agreeably as Mycroft took his usual seat while Cate walked across to the electronic scales.

"I am putting a bit more weight on now," she spoke over her shoulder. "I notice it when I stand up."

"_Six pounds_," Mycroft muttered, under his breath.

"But not that much," Roget looked at the readings on his computer. "Not quite three kilos yet," he turned examining Cate critically as she walked back to her chair. "And seems to be all baby," he added. "You've not noticed a gain elsewhere?"

Shaking her head, Cate sipped from a glass of cold water. "All baby," she said.

"Which is absolutely the very best news," Roget sat back, linking his fingers and smiling at them both. "Any other changes? Problems? _Concerns_?"

Throwing a wicked smile at her husband who sat, totally unperturbed by her expression, Cate deciding against informing the good doctor of her heightened appetite for sex, opting instead for discretion. "My breasts are becoming tender and in the last few weeks my skin seems to have developed a …" she turned to Mycroft, "a different scent."

"Anything unpleasant?" the specialist turned back to his screen.

"Not in the least, Mr Roget," Mycroft folded his arms matter-of-factly. "My wife is now reminiscent of a Montmartre _pastissier_," he announced mildly. "Far from unpleasant. Quite the opposite, in fact."

"I can check for specific causes later," Roget nodded, "But remember that your body is being flooded with all manner of hormones and chemicals as it grows your babies. The way your skin changes on the outside is nothing compared to what's going on inside." Pressing the desk-button, he indicated the far door. "Let's get the scan done and then we can talk about what happens next, shall we?" Roget summoned the nurse, and Cate stepped into the next room, well-versed with the routine by now.

"You've accompanied your wife to all her consultations thus far, Mr Holmes, are there any questions you'd like to ask me? Anything that might have you concerned?"

"Only the same anxiety as Cate," Mycroft looked thoughtful as he stroked the heavy platinum ring on his left hand. "Are we going to keep both of them?"

Roget nodded understandingly. "I hope to be able to give you a more definitive response to that this afternoon," he said, standing, waving the elder Holmes into the surgery beyond. "After you."

As usual, Cate was already lying along a high bed, a colourful printed cotton gown draped carefully around her torso, exposing her enlarged belly.

Mycroft imagined he could make out shapes beneath the taut skin – a fanciful notion, of course, but the idea fascinated him. Assuming he could stay out of Cate's arms long enough, he would look most closely tonight.

Applying the contact-gel, Roget laid a stethoscope along the ridge of the bump and rolled the head of the scanner gently but firmly across the left side of Cate's growing shape.

"Let's see what there is to see this week," he said, flipping the audio-switch.

Immediately, the now-familiar rapid pattering echoed through the room – both heartbeats at near identical speeds, although Mycroft was just able to distinguish them individually. Though barely dissonant, one was still fractionally faster; just sufficient for a careful ear to isolate it from the other.

Three pairs of eyes stared in fascination at the monitor as the anticipated image presented itself. A single small form, now clearly male even to a layman's cursory glance. They could see even the individual fingers and toes, the increasing detail making Cate think about what her son might actually look like once born. He would be handsome, if nothing else. She knew that for a certainty and, naturally, without the slightest possibility of personal bias.

"You son is likely to be tall," Roget observed. "Note the length of his femur in relation to the rest of his body," he added. "A common indication of later height."

"All the Holmes men are tall," Cate murmured, staring at the screen. "At least he won't be teased by his uncle."

"The last thing Sherlock will tease our son over will be his height or lack thereof," Mycroft stroked Cate's palm with his thumb.

Roget moved the wand further down to the left, adjusting the exact placement before swinging the monitor screen around even more for their better scrutiny.

The second twin was still there, but seemed to be taking up a greater volume than before.

"It's growing," Cate whispered.

"_Significantly_," Mycroft clasped his wife's hand tighter.

"She's growing," Roget smiled. "And I think she's going to be fine."

"She?" Cate stopped breathing for a second. "_She_?"

"The second foetus is sufficiently advanced now for me to advise you that you have a daughter as well as a son," the doctor smiled. "And she's catching up very nicely in size and development to her brother. In fact," he said, adjusting the image and taking several careful measurements. "At this point, she may be developing faster than he is. Either way," Roget looked pleased. "They are both showing advanced physiological indications for this stage of gestation, which is a very positive thing indeed."

Mycroft felt the world shift around him as the notion of, not only two children, but a daughter and a son registered in his brain.

"_A daughter_?" his throat was too dry to lend sound to the word. Swallowing, he tried again. "_Daughter?"_ A daughter. _His daughter. His son_.

"Congratulations, again," Roget smiled from him to Cate and back again. "Fraternal twins. Assuming there are no complications, I believe there is little reason for further worry about your daughter as she is clearly no longer in a marginal condition."

"She's stubborn, then," Cate didn't know whether to laugh or cry; her emotions were playing guessing-games.

"Exactly like her mother," Mycroft lifted Cate's hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the smooth skin. "And will no doubt collude with her mother in order to render my life a chaotic shambles."

"Blyth _Chaos _Holmes?" Cate grinned up at him, slightly delirious. "It has a certain _je ne sais quoi_."

"Blythe _Adin _Holmes, perhaps?" Mycroft's eyes were as blue as she had ever seen them. Not simply intense, but scintillating.

"_Perfect_," Cate couldn't move the smile from her face. "And Julius?"

"Julius Morgan Holmes," Mycroft offered. "After the General and your grandfather?"

Finding it increasingly difficult to breathe properly, Cate laughed softly, her eyes blurring, she turned to the obstetrician. "I also seem to be crying all the time."

Roget lifted his eyebrows at the both of them. "Hardly surprising now, is it?" he smiled gently, as his patient swung herself off the table and into her husband's embrace.

"_My love_," Mycroft breathed into her hair, wrapping her up in his arms. "_Oh, my God, Catie_."

One of the reasons that Andrew Roget had such a successful practice was that he knew when to speak and when to shut up. This was a time for the latter. He closed the surgery door quietly behind him.

"Give them a few minutes," he smiled at his nurse. "Mr Holmes is rather pleased to have a daughter."

###

Jody Clemence picked up the call transferred to her station.

"_JuniorChildrenswea_r," she smiled. "May I help you?"

The voice on the phone was quite clear in outlining precisely how she might be of assistance.

"But of course," Jody's smile grew with the instructions. "I shall be sure to include the yellow outfit," she made a written note of all that was desired, and then wrote a large _'x 2'_, beside the list. "And I'll call you back for delivery confirmation? _Anthea_, wasn't it?"

###

Ara Chakarian found a small, unoccupied table near the back of the café. Ordering a bottle of the local white, he watched as an older woman appeared at the door and began peddling her flowers around the tables. It seemed as if she was also offering a palm-reading service. God help us all, Chakarian thought. Fortune tellers, in this day and age. How far from civilisation is this place? He frowned: she wasn't going to have much luck with this crowd, he thought. Mostly reporters and outsiders, almost no couples where a young man might be counted on to try and impress his equally young lady with the gift of an expensive red rose over dinner. He wondered why she was even bothering.

Sipping the chilled, rather tart wine, Chakarian looked around, watching expressions and body-language without appearing to be watching: it had been so long, he'd almost forgotten what this felt like. The flower woman was making her way around to his table, her grey hair held back by pins and an old scarf. She looked fairly set on speaking to him. Ara made a face. He might have to give her some money simply to get rid of her.

A waitress appeared at his shoulder. "Are you ready to order, sir?" she asked, holding a small notebook and pencil at the ready.

"The house special, whatever it is," he said, still watching the woman circle closer. "And tell me where the toilets are, please."

Following his line of sight, the waitress chuckled. "She seems very determined," she smiled grimly. "Want me to see her off for you?"

"Is that even possible?" Chakarian picked up his wineglass, trying to hide behind it.

"Leave it to me," the waitress nodded, walking towards the flower-seller.

There was some hand-waving and a few raised words. The old woman looked at the waitress with slitted eyes and a sour expression, before turning to gaze entirely at Ara.

The look in her grey eyes was unmistakable: _fear_.

Barging around the younger woman, the flower-seller almost flung herself at his table as Chakarian shrank back against the wall.

"_Be careful_," she hissed at him, grabbing his hand. "You are in grave danger and will betray just as you will be betrayed!"

"Get away from me!" Ara leaned as far away as he possibly could while the waitress physically grabbed the woman to drag her out of the café.

"_You will betray as you are betrayed!"_ the old lady yelled back at him as she was thrown bodily out into the darkening street.

Several patrons seemed discomforted by such rough treatment of an elder, but after a minute or so, everything was quiet again and knives and forks and glasses began clinking as before.

Bringing him a large plate filled to overflowing with beef and cabbage and dumplings, the waitress wiped the back of her hand across her forehead. It was warm inside the kitchen.

"Is there anything else I can get for you, sir?" she asked.

Looking up at her, Ara noted a tired face, with strands of frizzled hair escaping from beneath a tight, white cap.

"Are you a local?" he said. "Live locally?"

"My family lives near the bottom of the town, sir," she said nodding, her voice distinctly rural. "Have done for years. Why?" she smiled wearily. "Looking for a guide?"

"In a manner of speaking," Chakarian sat back, thinking. "What time will you finish here tonight?

"Normally around eleven, depends when the last customer decides to leave."

"If I were to be back here around that time, would you be willing to talk to me, maybe answer some questions?"

"You're a reporter?" her face tightened. "_Or police?_"

"Not police," Chakarian shook his head. "Not really a reporter, either," he smiled slightly. "Just looking for some information."

"You got money?" the waitress looked over her shoulder as if realising she had spent too much time already speaking to this man.

"Some," Ara shrugged. "Not much, but you can have it all if you can give me the information I'm looking for."

"There's a fountain out in the square over there," she nodded out through the now-dark windows. "I'll be there after this place closes, for exactly ten minutes. If you're not around, I'm going home."

"I'll be there," Ara nodded.

"Later, then," she walked back towards the kitchens.

"_Hey you!"_ the Chef called after her as she walked straight through the kitchen. "Where's Maria?

"Had to run home to deal with a problem, she'll be back any time now – I offered to cover for her." Stepping through the narrow door at the far end, the waitress nodded to a thin wispy blonde girl sitting on an outside wall.

"Thank you, Maria," she said, handing over the white cap and apron. "Here's what I promised," she added, giving the girl a small wad of local currency.

"Did the joke work?" Maria was curious.

Talina Sarkis smiled. "It worked perfectly."

###

"Is the trouble all over?" Lestrade snaffled an extra-long chip from the box, eating it like dangling spaghetti.

"It's gone very quiet, but I'm not sure the trouble is ever going to be over exactly," Garret sipped her diet coke. "It's been going on-and-off for over a hundred years," she sighed. "My dad's a bit worried, though."

"Why so?" Greg turned to look at her face. She sounded unusually troubled.

"Remember I said there are still cousins over there? Well, he's had a few letters from a couple of them and they're not very happy with the government or the police – apparently the army drop by every other week." Julia waved a chip in the air. "I think they want to come over here but don't know how to go about it."

"Migrate to Britain?" Lestrade's eyebrows lifted. _But why not?_ Thousands of people did it every year. "Where would they go?" he asked. "London? Portsmouth?"

"Most of my relatives are still in the Portsmouth area," Garret rummaged in the box for the least crispy chips. "Though there are others all up and down the South coast – Hastings, Brighton, even Bournemouth," she paused, thinking. "But the ones who might come over this time would be completely lost; they wouldn't have a clue where to go, what they needed to do, nothing. They'd be lost sheep."

"And your dad's worried about getting them all kitted out, somewhere to live, stuff like that?" Greg understood. It was a big responsibility, family.

"Stuff like that, yes," Julia finished the last of her coke and wiped her hands on a paper napkin. "I think I'm going to have to help in some way."

"What would you need to do?" Lestrade dumped the detritus of their unexpected lunch into the nearest bin. "Fill in paperwork for them? Act as a translator?"

Julia smiled. "I'll probably have to go over there and bring them back with me," she raised her eyebrows. "Bit more than just a little paperwork."

He thought for a moment.

"Want me to come?" he said.

"You'd be willing to come with me to Armenia and shepherd a bunch of old darlings across to Portsmouth?"

"Yeah. If you like."

"I can't ask you to do that," Julia stared him straight in the eye.

"You're not asking, I'm offering." Her eyes were the same colour as his, but hers seemed … _sharper_. More in focus. As he watched, they seemed to grow brighter.

"Are you serious?"

"Of course I am," Lestrade smiled. "Got a pile of leave-days I keep getting shouted at to take, so why not? Never been to Armenia before."

Garret stared at him some more before puffing out her cheeks. "Okay," she nodded. "I'll admit it would be a huge help to have someone practical and reliable with me," she paused. "How's your head for vodka?"

"_Vodka_? Don't usually touch the stuff. Why?"

"Because you're going to have to meet my dad and he's going to give you vodka. _Lots _of vodka."

"Bring it on," Greg grinned. The pessimistic D.I. Julia Garret considered him practical and reliable and was taking him to meet her father.

He grinned some more.

###

Nora Compton had been quietly ecstatic since Cate had given her the news. And everything since then had been better than the news before it.

There were to be babies in the house.

That she had been asked to consider helping to look after Mr Mycroft's children just as she'd cared for he and Sherlock, thrilled the older woman's heart to pieces.

She had worked in secret with him over the construction of Miss Cate's exercise room, and now – her pulse quickened in delight at the very thought – there was another surprise afoot.

Doing her utmost not to let anything slip, Nora's face this morning felt like stone as she tried so very hard not to give the game away.

"I'm off to campus, now," Cate called as she walked as quickly as she could towards the front door where, as usual, Mycroft's car waited. "You know my number if you need anything. _Later_, Nora!" she called, closing the door with a firm _clunk_.

Following Mycroft's directions, Nora called the first number on the list.

"She's gone; you can start right away please."

Within five minutes, a large white van drew to a halt outside the house from which emerged two men, ladders, paint and wallpaper. Carrying their gear, they marched silently upstairs to the large bedroom immediately adjacent to the master bedroom.

They were in there for a good couple of hours.

Seeing they had finished and were packing up, Nora rang the second number, and just as the two men and the white van pulled away, a second van, this one bearing the logo and colours of a very well-known furniture-store, pulled into the kerb.

"Up the stairs, go straight to the end of the hall and it's the door on your right," she nodded, dying to follow them up and watch, but she couldn't, not yet. There was still another number she had to ring.

That done, Nora waited impatiently by the door, for the last arrival, a well-dressed woman who eventually turned up in another van, complete with all manner of pretty things and a nice young man to carry them.

The furniture men nodded and smiled as they left, allowing the designer space to work her magic.

"How much time do we have?" she asked the housekeeper.

Checking her watch, Nora was amazed to see that it was already midday.

"If Miss Cate decides to come home from the University early," she said, "you have about an hour. But she always rings to see if I need anything brought home first, and she hasn't rung yet."

"Then we'd better get cracking in case she does," the woman, clad in fashionable fatigues, grabbed a pile of fabric and ran up the stairs.

As it happened, Cate worked rather later than usual, knowing Nora was getting dinner tonight, and realising she wouldn't be back on campus until the following week, she had felt a need to completely clear the decks.

Thus it was just before six when she crawled in, a little more tired than she really should be. However, the work was done, and all she wanted was to kick off her shoes and have a large gin-and-tonic.

Making do with shoe-removal, Cate walked slowly into the lounge when Mycroft, standing from his chesterfield, looked first at her then down to his watch, a from creasing his forehead.

"Have you been at the campus the _entire _day?" he scowled faintly, taking her briefcase.

"I managed to finish everything that needed to be finished," she said, leaning against him and breathing him in. His scent comforted her more and more these days. "All I have left to do now is prep for Vienna and I'm completely done."

"If you overdo things, I shall be deeply unhappy, my sweet," Mycroft spoke quietly but with an edge to his voice as he drew her to a chair, making her sit back while he lifted her feet onto a _pouffé_.

Walking into the kitchen, he returned with a wineglass half-full of a fizzing, pale liquid.

"I'm not supposed to drink," Cate looked up at him, accepting the glass, which was icy cold; her taste buds already anticipating the acid tang of champagne.

"It's carbonated grape-juice," Mycroft smiled. "Apparently if you have it cold enough, it almost tastes like the real thing," he added. "Try it and see."

Sniffing the glass, then sipping the contents, Cate knew at once it wasn't wine, but it was a reminder of wine, and that was very nearly enough. A little sweet for her liking, but not entirely horrible. She could get used to it, she decided.

Sighing, she moved herself into a more comfortable position, closing her eyes and sipping the fruit-juice. Seating himself on the coffee-table in front of her, Mycroft lifted her left foot and began to knead and roll the joints of her ankle and toes, massaging the inner arch and the bones of her heel.

Cate groaned in sheerest pleasure. A foot massage and a glass of almost-wine. It was too much.

"Don't stop," she murmured, her eyes still closed. "I'll give you a million pounds to do that for the next hour."

Mycroft laughed. "I can have someone here to do this every day if you'd like," he smiled. "Are you hungry?"

"I'm too tired to eat," Cate blinked wearily, not really in any mood to think about food.

Mycroft scowled again, turning his attention to her other foot. "Did you eat today?"

"I _ate_," Cate lifted her eyebrows. "Fruit and crackers and tomato soup and only one coffee and more fruit and a piece of pizza."

"_Good grief, Cate_," Mycroft looked actively cross. "_When _will you take the proper care?"

Holding out a hand, he helped her stand and walk into the dining-room where Nora was about ready to serve dinner.

"Hello, Nora," Cate smiled as she sat down in the chair Mycroft held for her. "I'm not actually all that hungry."

The older woman shook her head. "You need to keep your strength up, especially with the two of them," she said nodding at Cate's growing bump. Ignoring any protest, she proceeded to give Cate a choice serving from each dish on the table.

"I don't have to be back in the office until next Tuesday," Cate sighed, pushing the plate aside. "I can eat later."

"You need food now," Mycroft sounded adamant, sitting opposite and staring at the nitwit he had married. "Even if you're not hungry, you have guests who probably are."

"Mycroft, I'm too tired to think, let alone eat," Cate rested her head in her hands. "I can eat later and start on my paper for Vienna. The children will not starve if I don't eat for a couple of hours."

Fixing Cate with a hooded stare, he looked dissatisfied. "I still think you should try and eat something now."

Returning his look with one equally as stubborn, Cate sat back and raised an eyebrow. "I'll eat when I'm ready," she said, slowly.

Leaning forward, Mycroft picked up her knife and fork and cut a small piece of chicken, lifting it up in the air towards her.

"You will make me feel better if you eat something now."

"You think that technique is going to work on a child?" Cate lifted the other eyebrow and smiled faintly, amused at his increased bossiness and imagining him trying it with a two-year-old.

"I don't know," Mycroft remained impassive. "Is it working?"

"When I want to eat, I'll eat." Cate folded her arms, her gaze cooling. "You're being unreasonable."

Looking frustrated, Mycroft slitted his eyes. "You are forcing me into a difficult position," he said quietly.

"Nobody is forcing you into anything." Cate wondered what was going to happen next. He sounded quite peeved.

"You leave me little alternative," Mycroft paused, drew a deep breath and looked sorrowful.

Eyes wide in anticipation, Cate tilted her head and waited.

He leaned in close, his eyes fastened, unblinking, onto hers.

"I love you more than I imagined myself ever capable of doing," his tone was gentle and entirely unaffected.

Her heart jolted at the sincerity in his voice.

"If anything untoward were to happen to you, I question my ability to continue," he added, softly. "I doubt I could function without you, now." His gaze was bright blue and utterly without guile.

Cate's throat tightened, a prickle stung her eyes. She swallowed convulsively.

"If you are at risk, I am unable to think beyond your welfare," he whispered. "You are my heart; my life, _my darling Catie_. Please eat something."

An unbearable wave of feeling crashing over her, Cate took the fork from his hand and ate the chicken.

"Emotional blackmail, Mycroft Holmes," she muttered, chewing, her eyes still blurry. "Below the belt."

"Are you eating voluntarily?" he cut her another piece of chicken before sitting sat back and lacing his fingers.

"Yes, I am, you brute," she said, taking a deep breath and spearing a piece of asparagus.

"Then it's persuasion, not blackmail," he nodded. "Besides," he said. "You can leave the paper for a few days," Mycroft poured her some more fizzy fruit-juice. "There is something you might find of greater interest."

Catching an intriguing hint in his tone, Cate stopped chewing and immediately focused her gaze on his face. Mycroft returned her scrutiny with an open innocence, instantly convincing her there was cunning duplicity afoot. Switching her inspection to Mrs Compton's wide-eyed artlessness, Cate knew, without any question of a doubt, she was in the presence of co-conspirators.

"What have you done?" a faint smile threatened to curl one side of her mouth. "You've done _something_," she lifted her eyebrows. "Mycroft? The pair of you look too blameless for words, and I simply cannot trust you when you're so impossibly guiltless."

"_Darling_," he leaned forward, picking up her hand and pressing his lips to her fingers. "What say we dine first and then show you what you are so impressively correct in suspecting?"

Too tired to argue, Cate decided to reserve judgement as both her husband and her housekeeper began chattering about a range of bland innocuities.

Managing to swallow down a few mouthfuls, every time she finished what was on her plate, one or the other of them would add a little more, and now she was stuffed.

"_Enough_!" she declared. "Either you tell me now, or I'm going to have a nap and sleep off the force-feeding I've just endured."

"Feeling better, my love?" Mycroft scanned her face, his expression mildly examining.

"Actually, yes," Cate had to admit she did. "Not quite so tired."

"_Good_," Mycroft stood, holding out his hand. "Then Mrs Compton and I have a little surprise for you."

Allowing herself to be led from the room and up the stairs, Cate once again caught the smell of something not-usual – something that smelled like … paint. Someone had been painting up here today. Beginning to form an idea of what might have been done, she kept her silence.

"Eyes closed please, my love," Mycroft murmured, taking her hand and leading her past the guest rooms and down the hall towards their own suite.

Instead of turning left into their own bedroom, Cate felt herself turned towards the right, the smell of paint becoming immediately stronger.

"You may look now." She heard a distinct smile in her husband's voice.

Opening her eyes, Cate's breath snagged in her chest.

The largest guest-room had been transformed into a nursery. And what a transformation.

The room had been painted, walls and ceiling, in striped segments of soft grey-green and white, to resemble the inside of a huge striped circular tent. The floor was now a soft, but hard-wearing wool carpet in a tan-brown shade the colour of sawdust, and there were a matched pair of dark, natural varnished-wood cribs. The architrave, window frames, doors and skirting-board were all painted in an off-white, and there were long dark curtains of the same green-grey at the two windows, framing heavy pale-grey light-blocking blinds.

There were two floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, two chests-of-drawers, both painted in the same soft shades of green and white, with large pictures of various animals on the walls, all in complimentary tones. A pair of deep, reclining armchairs in dark red sat over in one corner with a low table between them, and a complete version of Lear's _The Owl and the Pussycat_ had been written in large, black letters all the way down the centre of the main wall.

Walking across to the small ensuite, there were further surprises, with an almost total refit and repaint, together with a complete changing-station all the accoutrements necessary for a modern-day nursery.

"And there's these, as well," Nora touched her elbow, bringing Cate back into the main room. Opening the door to the walk-in wardrobe, she saw two complete sets of everything a baby might possibly want or need, including an entire fashion-show of baby-clothes and right down to separate piles of nappies, soft blankets and pillows for the cribs.

It was all so lovely that Cate simply couldn't help herself. Her eyes went blurry again.

In a second Mycroft's arms were gently around her, holding her close, keeping her sheltered. "Don't cry, Catie," he murmured. "This is for them and for you."

"It's too lovely," she snuffled. "And all I can do is weep and make a fool of myself."

"_Darling_," he was smiling again, wondering if he should mention the changes at Deepdene. _Leave it for now_, he thought.

Taking a deep, wavery breath, Cate calmed. "I need a cup of tea."

"I believe Nora already has that in hand," he said, "Let's go down, shall we?"

"Actually," she smiled. "I'd prefer to have it right here," she said, walking over to one of the comfortable-looking armchairs.

As she took a seat, Mycroft smiled. So far, everything had gone according to plan. His wife was happy, his … children … _my son, my daughter _… were apparently fine, and even his housekeeper was pleased. These multiple levels of happiness didn't align terribly often and he was determined to make the most of it.

He wondered if it were too soon to bring up the matter of schools …

###

It was a little after eleven when Ara Chakarian met the waitress again. She had a scarf tied tightly around her head this time, but her voice and her eyes were the same. He wasted no time on small-talk or pleasantries.

"My name is Chakarian," he said. "Professor Ara Chakarian, and I teach journalism and politics at the University in Yerevan."

"My friends call me _Chinar_," the woman said, taking a seat on the cold stone fountain surround.

"What do you know about the recent unrest?" Ara asked. "It began here, didn't it?"

"I know everything about it," she nodded. "I know how it started, who started it and what will happen in a few weeks' time when all of this has quietened down and everyone goes home."

"What will happen then?" Chakarian was more than curious, his old reporter-instincts awakening.

The woman was silent, but her face assumed a calculating look.

"Why should I give you all this information for _nothing_," she asked. "There should be something in this for me."

"You can have all the money I'm carrying," Ara showed her. While it wasn't a fortune, neither was it to be sneezed at.

"I don't want your _money_," the woman scorned. "What good is money going to do me in a place like _this?"_

"What do you want then?" the professor felt suddenly manipulated into asking the question.

She was silent again, but her expression was, if possible, even more scheming.

"I want a ticket out of this place," she said. "I need papers, a passport and a ticket."

The Professor thought. There was no reason she couldn't have those things, he reasoned. She was a local woman, keen to get away from the place; her agenda was obvious. He might be able to help her. It shouldn't be too difficult.

"I can maybe get you all of those," Chakarian knew that the man behind his being in this godforsaken spot could arrange such things with a simple phone-call. "Where do you want to go? Tbilisi? Ankara? _Odesa_?"

Shaking her head, Talina Sarkis smiled a fierce smile of success.

"I want to go a little further than that," she smiled even more, her grey eyes wide.

"Where to, then?" Chakarian had little doubt that Holmes could arrange such a thing, wherever the woman chose.

Her victorious smile growing wider, she told him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

_Destination Vienna – Chinar Parisyan Requests – The Minder – Wodka – Not Exactly a Beach Shack – A Paradox – I Bought You Flowers – The Definition of Pain – Things That Will Never Change._

_#_

_#_

"You're still determined to go?" Mycroft leaned back against the granite bench-top in the kitchen and folded his arms; the expression on his face half-way between frustration and concern.

Lowering herself into a chair, Cate sighed. Vienna was only two weeks away.

"Mycroft, my love, we've been through this already," she looked up at him, slightly exasperated. And they had. This must be about the fifth or sixth time he had asked her the same question over the last several weeks. Cate knew he was ill at ease about this trip, but really, she was in perfect shape for a twenty-two week pregnancy.

"Firstly, I shall be staying in a lovely hotel, not five minutes' walk from the_Universitätsring_," she reiterated, using her fingers to count the points. "A hotel which, I might add," she said, "was specifically chosen by _your assistant_ because of its proximity to two of the City's most celebrated hospitals, one of which is internationally-noted for its Obstetrics department."

Taking another breath, Cate lifted a second finger. "My German is perfect, I have been to Vienna before and I have no plans to go to parties or hit the night-club circuit during my brief stay," she said, "more's the pity."

Giving her husband a gentle smile. "I shall be gone for three days, during which time the most exhausting thing I will be doing is opening and closing my laptop. _Darling_," she shook her head. "I'll be _fine_, I promise."

"You refuse to look after yourself properly," Mycroft sniffed, unmollified. "You'll forget to eat and will overdo things because this pregnancy has manifestly removed any lingering common-sense you once had, a fact which has been demonstrated several times over."

"Then come with me," Cate smiled again. "Come with me and we can spend every minute outside the conference proper in cafés where I promise to eat myself silly, or in bed, where you can supervise my nap-time," she grinned wickedly.

"I can't, Cate," his smile was regretful. "Much though the idea tempts me, the EU Security Summit starts in Aylesbury the morning following your departure, and I simply cannot miss an opportunity to have the British, Russian and French services in the same room attempting to lie to each other over the same question."

Standing, Mycroft walked over to Cate's side, sliding a hand around the side of her face as he leaned down to kiss her lightly. "I worry about you," he murmured. "_Always_."

"Then I don't know what to suggest," Cate sighed again. "I really want to attend this conference since it will likely be my last for some time," she said, thinking. "I could always bring Nora along with me, I suppose."

"Nora would probably require more attention that you," Mycroft stood, a thoughtful look in his eyes. "However, your point is taken," he said.

###

It had taken her over a month since leaving Akhtala to reach this point, but she realised too much haste at any stage of the game and her plans might all end precipitously and in disaster.

Thus, Talina Sarkis had, at least for the time being, resigned herself to becoming _Chinar Parisyan_, a waitress from a small Armenian backwater, looking for a way out of her provincial monotony.

Apparently her benefactor, the slightly naïve Professor Chakarian, was himself working under the auspices of someone even higher up the chain of power. And so far, her pretence had worked better than she'd dreamed it might. Chakarian seemed to have no suspicions about her story at all.

With a permanent travel embargo placed upon her own passport and papers, Sarkis had almost given up hope of ever escaping that dreary hole of a town and had nearly accepted she might have to spend the remainder of her existence far away from the grand cities, from the parties and the swirl of life she had once known; almost succumbed to the cold banishment and exile fate had meted out for her.

But perhaps now, the tide of her life was turning back in her favour; perhaps now, she might finally, after all the miserable years of isolation and solitude, be able to reclaim the reality she once had.

Leaving Akhtala with Chakarian had been the first hurdle, but he had hidden her in the back of his car after she had spun him a yarn about a jealous, violent lover who would never knowingly allow her to leave the place. She hadn't wanted to mention that the local police often kept their eyes open for her; just to be sure she was still around. Nobody would be interested in the whereabouts of a local café-worker, but she still needed to avoid detection, and so a jealous lover was created.

Once they were far enough away, she joined him in the front seat as there were no longer check-points on the roads these days. They made the Capital in excellent time, and the Professor had left her alone in his house while he went for a walk to contact his _Patron_. Despite her – _Chinar's_ – attempts to extract the information, Chakarian had remained utterly silent on the identity of the person upon whose directions he acted.

Aware a little country waitress would never do things she herself would have entirely no compunction about doing; Sarkis bit her lip, accepted his reluctance to speak, and bided her time.

Wearing nothing but the dowdy black and grey clothes she'd brought in a cheap suitcase, and keeping her hair under a kerchief, without cosmetics and walking with a slight weariness, nobody would connect _Chinar_ with _Talina_. Until the Professor managed to get the passport and papers she so desired, she had to stay in-character, playing the humble country rustic until she could leave this place behind her with impunity.

Chakarian had been moderately shocked when Chinar announced her preferred destination.

"_London_?" he said, incredulously. "Why on earth do you want to go to London?"

"I have relatives near there," Sarkis said, remembering the town-names she had heard spoken of in Akhtala's market-square. "A place called Portsmouth," she offered, giving him no further details.

"I don't know if my contact can arrange that," he said, cautiously. "Anywhere around Eastern Europe would probably be fine, but _London_?"

"If you want me to give you the information you seek, then this is not such a big thing to arrange for me," Talina allowed the tip of a claw to become visible.

If Chakarian and his _contact_ wanted information about the recent troubles in Akhtala – Sarkis smiled internally – troubles that she herself had instigated, in fact – then _Chinar Parisyan_ wanted a passport and travel papers.

"I will see what may be done," Chakarian looked doubtful, although he was fairly sure that a man like Mycroft Holmes could organise an entire host of passports to the moon if he so desired. "I will ask."

The voice at the other end of the phone had been cool but not cold, and Chakarian felt able to advocate on behalf of his rural guest.

"She's a waitress from Akhtala," he said. "A little country-girl who only wants to leave the place and maybe see something of the world before she settles down with a farmer in Poland or Latvia," he said. "It's what she wants in trade for her information."

"And you are convinced the information this woman possesses is of sufficient import for such a payment?"

Ara Chakarian made a face he realised Holmes couldn't see. "Since we returned to Yerevan," he said, "the entire region around the town of Akhtala has closed down completely, as if something either very big or very bad is happening up there, and this woman seems to know names and places and dates,' he replied. "She seems genuine."

There was a pause in the conversation. "Text her details to this number," Holmes was matter-of-fact. "Someone will be in touch with you shortly, with instructions for collection of the required _materiels_. Do not permit her to disappear, Professor," the voice on the phone was quietly imperative. "It would be dangerous to lose her."

It wasn't until the phone-call was over that Ara realised Holmes had neglected to clarify for _whom_ the woman's disappearance might be dangerous.

###

John had been on the way back from Tesco's with a plastic bag containing tonight's dinner and probably tomorrow's lunch, when the sleek black Jaguar had pulled over to the kerb just in front of him. As he approached, the nearside rear door opened slowly and silently, as if by magic.

Rolling his eyes, John pulled the door further open as he slipped inside.

"You know," he said, turning the dark-haired man in the back seat. "One day you're going to get fed-up with all this cloak-and-dagger stuff and ask me to meet you in your office or in the pub, or someplace semi-normal."

"And how are you today, Doctor Watson?" Mycroft checked his Hunter. "A little early to be considering dinner and a little late to do the grocery-shopping. Are we underemployed at present?"

"Actually, yes, we are," John sat back in the comfy leather seat and enjoyed the lift home. "Sherlock's been working on some god-awful analysis involving pig's eyes and phosphorous; the flat stinks to high heaven and I wanted some fresh-air."

"So you took advantage of the fine weather and decided to walk to the shops in order to gain both a cleansing draft plus some light exercise," Mycroft nodded. "Most laudable."

"And why would my mundane daily routine contain even a fractional interest for you?" John wondered. "Unless, of course," a fatalistic look arrived on the blonde man's features. "You want me to do something, don't you?" he said. "You want me to do something for you and you don't want Sherlock to know about it."

"You leap to a very swift conclusion, Doctor," Mycroft blinked slowly.

"Yeah, maybe," John smiled. "But it's the right conclusion, isn't it?" He shook his head. "So what is it, then?" he asked. "What is it you want me to do that you don't want Sherlock to know about, which, by the way," he added knowingly, "is a bloody silly expectation."

Saying nothing, the elder Holmes regarded his brother's flatmate assessingly.

"I mean," John shrugged. "He's going to know about whatever it is within minutes of me getting home, isn't he?"

Looking philosophical, Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "I would like you to accompany Cate to Vienna for three days in two weeks' time."

"_Ah_," John said. "Right. You specifically want me?"

"My wife will be twenty-four weeks pregnant with twins, John. Think it through." Mycroft glanced out of the car window.

John thought.

Cate was well along in her pregnancy now, perhaps to the stage where she was finding things awkward, especially with a double-load. If she were going to Vienna at this stage, it was probably on university-business, therefore a conference or a publishing-gig, or the like. Knowing how Mycroft, _one_, felt about Cate, and, _two_, felt about anything that might cause her a problem, if he couldn't persuade her out of the trip, then he'd want to be damn sure she was unlikely to come to harm of any description.

Which, he suspected, was right about where he came in. Mycroft wanted Cate to have a Minder.

"Does she know you were going to ask me?" he said.

"Cate herself suggested taking our Housekeeper, but willing though she might be, I fear Mrs Compton would end up being the one being looked after," Mycroft raised his eyebrows again.

"You know my wife as well as anyone, John," he said, quietly. "And she trusts you. You're also a doctor and would know if she's doing too much or if she's experiencing any kind of distress," he added. "Additionally, your professional status means she might _actually_ listen to you, a feat which I have been singularly unable to achieve. Plus, of course," Mycroft's smile was momentarily flat. "You can handle trouble should anything of a troublesome nature appear."

"Are you expecting things of a troublesome nature?" John was mildly curious.

"Not as such, no," Mycroft sighed. "Cate is a speaker at a conference at the University of Vienna, and is insistent upon attending. I simply want to take every precaution, as she's idiotically thoughtless about her own wellbeing. Since I cannot accompany her at this particular time, I wanted her to have the very best alternative escort I could think of."

"And you're asking me?" John was faintly flattered.

"Naturally," Mycroft smiled graciously, "all your travel and accommodation costs are to be entirely met, and I would ask you to accept the standard fee for such a _protective_ contract." He handed John an envelope. "I am assured that this is the usual fee for such services, although I am open to negotiation."

Not even bothering to look, John grinned, a little irritated.

"I don't need to be paid to look after Cate," he said, handing the envelope back. "She's one of the few people I would do this for as a friend, Mycroft."

"I appreciate your candour," Mycroft nodded. "You will undertake the commission?"

"I think a few days in Vienna might be just what the doctor will order," the blonde man smiled. To hell with Sherlock and his vile-smelling experiments.

The Jaguar drew into the kerb outside 221 Baker Street.

"I will have Anthea contact you with the details," Mycroft said. "Don't worry about attempting to keep this arrangement private, as my brother will take great delight prising it from you if try. Thank you, John; this has taken a great weight from my mind."

It was only when he was fishing around in his coat pocket for the front-door key that his fingers brushed against the shape of a folded envelope. Mycroft must have slipped it in as he left the car. Out of curiosity, John slid a thumb beneath the flap, lifting out the signed cheque.

It was made out to him for the sum of five thousand pounds.

###

"So, you work with my daughter?" Henrik Garret's voice was a solid force in the big room.

Greg felt about sixteen again, about to take his first girlfriend out to the cinema.

"She and I both work for the Met, yes," Lestrade towered over the shorter man who shared the same eyes as the Gorgeous Julia. "Name's Greg, or Gregory, if you want to be formal," he added.

"_Gregor_? A good Russian name." The Garret family patriarch gestured him to a couch.

"We must speak of things important to men," he grinned. "Which will chase the women away and allow us freedom to talk about football," he lowered his voice to a murmur as he walked over to a nearby sideboard.

"You will take vodka with me?"

It was just after three in the afternoon. Lestrade sighed. Julia _had_ warned him.

"I will have some vodka," he said. "But only a little as I must get back to being a policeman before the end of the day."

"This is very _gentle_ vodka," Henrik said, pronouncing the word '_wodka'_. "A child could drink it without harm."

Hoping that there were no children upon whom Julia's father might attempt to test such a theory, Greg clinked the tiny shot-glass with the older man's and did what he did; he drank the _wodka_; straight and swift.

The burning fumes immediately cleared his head and alerted his brain to incipient meltdown at some point in the not-too-distant future.

"_Smooth_," he choked, managing not to cough and embarrass himself beyond redemption. It was a mistake, as the older man smiled a sweet smile and refilled Greg's glass.

"I keep telling Julia she should think about a husband and a family," her father called her _Iulia_. "But she laughs at me and calls me an old man," he sighed. "I may be an old man, but I don't like the idea of her being all alone."

"I doubt someone like your daughter would ever be all alone," Greg smiled as the heat of the fiery spirit loosened his tongue. He looked through the open doorway and smiled again as she walked past.

The smile was not unobserved. Henrik raised an eyebrow.

"You have offered to accompany Julia to the Old Country and help her bring back the Aunties?" he asked. "Are you sure you are happy to do this? There is no payment involved."

"I offered to help a _friend_, Mr Garret," Lestrade wanted to get the record straight from the beginning. "Your daughter and I work together and are colleagues and friends, that is all. I have a number of leave days I must either take or lose, and so when she told me she would be travelling overseas, I decided I might as well help her if I possibly could."

Greg took another sip of the vodka, pleased now that he was clearly becoming used to it. It felt much easier to drink this third shot.

"Call me _Henrik_," Julia's father smiled, topping up the tiny glass.

###

"You've been in Mycroft's car," Sherlock sniffed as John walked past the kitchen table. "What did he want this time?"

"He offered me a job," John poured boiling water over the tea. "A very nicely-paying job, too."

Sitting up, his eyes narrowing, Sherlock looked entirely suspicious.

"What kind of _nicely-paying _job?" he asked. "Clearly something to do with Cate."

Turning, John frowned. "What makes you think it's anything to do with Mycroft's wife?"

"You smiled when you described it as _nicely_ paying," Sherlock wrinkled his forehead in thought. "So not only has he offered to pay you, probably by cheque, judging by the corner of the envelope sticking out of your right-hand jacket pocket; an envelope from his personal stock if I'm not mistaken." Sherlock stood now, getting into the rhythm of his analysis. "_But _f_urther_, you said '_a job'_, in a tone of voice one uses to describe a one-off arrangement, not ongoing employment, and the only reason my brother would ask you specifically to do something for him for which he would be prepared to pay you by cheque presented in an envelope of his personal stationery, suggests it would be something of a personal nature. Since Mycroft rarely bothers to write cheques for anything less than a thousand pounds these days, the fact that you consider the payment '_nice'_ lends itself to the idea of an even higher sum. Why would he be willing to pay you any amount above a thousand pounds? Only if it were a task of significant importance to him," Sherlock took his tea and returned to the settee.

"The fact that Cate is a key-speaker at a Literary conference in Vienna in two weeks' time, a date which _happens_ to coincide with the next EU enclave on security and terrorism somewhere in the Home Counties, probably Bucks because that's where they all seem to be, argues that Mycroft himself feels unable to accompany her to the Continent. Cate is by now enormous with child, correction, _children_, and therefore you are the next most logical candidate as companion."

Sherlock sipped his tea. "How did I do and are you going to take his commission?"

"She'll be twenty-four weeks, which is hardly enormous," John sat in his own chair, plumping up the cushions. "But you're correct otherwise," he said. "I think I might go. It's all-expenses paid, and I doubt Mycroft would have Cate bunked-up just in any old B-and-B."

"He usually stays at the _Hotel de France_ on the _Ringstrasse_," the younger Holmes flicked up a quick search on Google. "_Here_," he said, handing his laptop over. "Not exactly a B-and-B, is it?"

Scrolling down the rather grand description of the rather grand hotel, John had to admit that, no; it wasn't exactly a beach-shack.

"It's only for three days or so, and I've never been to Vienna, so I think I might take your brother up on his offer, assuming, of course," John looked up. "That Cate is happy with the idea of me as her Minder."

"Of course she'll be happy," Sherlock reclaimed his laptop. "Cate has a natural affinity with you, or hadn't you noticed?"

"_Affinity_?" John wasn't sure it was a word he would have used.

Sherlock sighed. "Meaning only that she feels a connection with you in that you both put up with the idiosyncrasies of a _Holmes_."

"Ah, of course," John nodded, smiling. In that, Sherlock was correct. He and Cate had formed a comfortable friendship since Christmas, although John could still not quite work out how any woman would chose Mycroft for a partner.

"And, knowing Mycroft, everything will be first-class all the way, so you may as well resign yourself to a few days of hedonistic torture."

"Leaving you free to stink up the house again?"

"These are important experiments, John."

"Of course they are," John nodded absently, wondering what clothes he might have that were in any way not likely to humiliate him in a posh hotel.

###

Mycroft flicked through a sheaf of grainy, black-and-grey enlargements of security-camera pictures taken of several street-views in Yerevan earlier in the day.

There was a common theme in each of the images; a lone woman: walking along the pavement; standing leaning against the parapet of an old stone bridge, in an outside café under some sycamore trees. There was virtually no detail; no real facial expression to be seen, no useful recognition to be made from anything in the photos.

Chakarian's mystery woman's passport photographs had arrived that morning and, despite the inevitable changes wrought by the passage of time, he had recognised her in an instant. Despite the lack of cosmetics and artifice; dressed roughly, her hair uncoiffed, she still held the eye. Still exquisitely beautiful. He was strangely unsure why he had sought the Yerevan photographs.

How unutterably ironic that she should be seeking his aid to escape the very prison in which he had ensured her exclusion from the world. That she would unknowingly walk directly into the hands which had delivered her into exile so many years before, was the supreme paradox, and one, he was sure, she would find amusing.

So: Talina Sarkis had risen from her silent, near-forgotten oblivion and re-entered the world. This explained the Akhtala _cordon_, and every one of the recent disturbances along the Armenian border. It was how she operated. Some things would never change, no matter how many years passed.

Mycroft nodded to himself, stroking the gold ring on his right hand.

He would bring her to London.

###

Deepdene in June was the epitome of _perfect_.

Cate had begun to anticipate their long weekend as soon as Mycroft helped her into the back of the Jaguar. While she was not yet ungainly, she'd noticed her centre of balance beginning to shift in order to accommodate the additional and specifically located change in her weight, which made things like getting in and out of cars a nuisance.

However, the sun was shining, the clouds were white and fluffy and she felt fantastic. Everything was good, right now; not only did she feel physically amazing, but her energy seemed to have returned, and she smiled happily, simply because she felt like it.

"You are glowing, you know," Mycroft's quiet words brought her attention around to him as his fingers slid through hers. "I considered that expression to be apocryphal, but I see now I was mistaken," he smiled, squeezing her hand gently. "You are even more beautiful than usual."

"There's no need to wax lyrical, darling," Cate grinned. "I am fully aware my silhouette is fast approaching that of a well-fed dugong, but it's very thoughtful of you to tell me such pretty lies."

"I have never lied to you, nor will I ever do so," he raised his eyebrows, shaking his head slightly. "I value you too much to waste a second of our time together on an untruth."

_He really was rather wonderful at times. _"I quite like you too," Cate smiled again, turning to watch city streets turn into country roads as they headed down the A3.

"_My love_," his fingers were warm and careful around hers as he sighed: she never believed him.

Making excellent time, it took them just over an hour to reach the gravelled drive of the Edwardian house. This was her second summer at Deepdene, and Cate was even more pleased with the place now than she had been when Mycroft had first brought her here. Now it really felt like _home_.

Before opening the heavy front-door, he turned to her with a self-indulgent smile, "I have a small confession to make," he said, brushing a strand of hair away from her face, his expression alight with good-humour.

"_How small?"_ Cate narrowed her eyes, looking at him as if he'd just admitted to buying a minor navy.

"_Actually_," he smiled, vastly entertained, tucking her fingers into the crook of his arm and leading her through the main door. "Not that small at all."

"What have you done?" Cate knew immediately he was about to present another surprise, but she didn't have it in her to pretend to be even the slightest bit concerned. She had given him _carte blanche_ and he was enjoying doing all these unstinting, wonderful things so much, his unambiguous pleasure was as much a joy to her as it was to him.

Mycroft knew that Cate would want to return to Deepdene before too long and had harboured this latest offering deep in his heart; taking it out at odd moments to enjoy the intended result and Cate's anticipated response. Few things in his life thus far had provided him with this level of prolonged enjoyment, and he realised he might just have embarked upon a rather expensive hobby.

"I bought you some flowers," his face was almost perfectly controlled, though Cate detected a microscopic curl at the side of his mouth.

"And you can't wait for me to see them, I think," she smiled, leaning into him. "Come on then," she turned to meet his eyes. "Show me."

"Wouldn't you prefer to have tea first?" he helped her out of her jacket. "I'm sure Nora is hereabouts somewhere, undoubtedly knee-deep in cakes by this time."

"I can have tea and some of Nora's cakes later," Cate said. "Show me."

"You quite sure, darling?" Mycroft was reasonableness itself. "A brief nap might refresh you for later and …"

"_Mycroft_," she laughed, poking him in the arm. "Show me _now_."

Taking her hand in his arm again, he brought her up the main stairs to the junction of the Long gallery and the main thoroughfare into the first-floor bedrooms. The master suite was at the very end of this wide corridor, with a guest-suite before it on either side. He turned her towards the left-hand entrance.

"In here," he said, opening the door.

Stepping through, Cate experienced the same whirling sensation she had when she'd seen the new nursery at the townhouse. And for precisely the same reason. Mycroft had had the suite remodelled into a room for the children.

It was a perfect room. Cate's heart fluttered in delight as she took in all the new appointments and colours and furniture.

A nursery, of course, but this time one in keeping with the traditional mood and décor of the rest of the house. A brand-new room yet simultaneously, a very old one, with traditional wallpapers instead of clever paint-effects; with beautifully refurbished, artfully miss-matched furniture instead of newly-bought; teddy-bears instead of mobiles, and soft wooden building-blocks instead of bright modernity. It was a place for play and rest, with rag-rugs on the floor and paintings of dancing cows on the walls. It was unbelievable. It was beyond words.

Stepping inside, Cate allowed her fingers to brush over the pile of handmade patchwork quilts, the softness of big cushions and the heavy heft of thick drapery at the windows framing generous window-seats and hidden nooks for toys and small children.

Another pair of well-stuffed armchairs in contrasting realms of chintz took up one corner, the nearest one home to two rather well-loved old bears.

Cate fixed upon them: these were not new-old toys; these were the real thing. But why would Mycroft have allowed anything old and possibly unsanitary into this special and most precious of all places … _unless _…

"Which one was yours?" she asked, quietly, lifting them both.

"The lighter one," he had come to stand behind her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "_Dougal_."

"Dougal?" Cate turned, grinning up at a side to her husband she had no idea existed, six months ago. "Wasn't he a character in a children's television show?"

"_The Magic Roundabout_, and yes," he said, taking the raggedy creature from her hand. "Dougal had rather more fur when he and I first met," Mycroft held the bear up to his eyes. "Time has not been kind to my old friend."

"And the other was _Sherlock's_?" Cate hardly dared believe it. That Sherlock, even at the tenderest of ages, might have been attached to something soft and cuddly, was a strange connection to make.

Holding the darker of the two bears up for a more critical inspection, Mycroft noticed it lacked an eye, most probably from one of Sherlock's earlier experiments, and seemed to be suffering from an explosion of stuffing at the back of its head. The right ear had been affectionately chewed.

"I realise these are too far gone for the children to play with," Mycroft's smile was lightly nostalgic. "But I wanted you to see them before they were discarded."

"_Throw them away_?" Cate was horrified. "You haven't heard of the Teddy Bear Hospital?"

"You want to have them restored?" he looked at the two old toys with a diagnostic eye. "They're pretty far gone."

"May I please take them away and have them properly treated?" she took both bears carefully from his hands and held them, one in either arm, waiting for his blessing.

Looking at his wife holding the two small forms so carefully made Mycroft's chest seize as he realised she might soon hold their children in exactly the same manner. His heart pounded in a way it hadn't done for several weeks, as the realisation of impending parenthood once again clambered all over his awareness.

"_I_ … I have no idea what kind of father I'm going to be," he said suddenly, _breathlessly_. "My own father was …"

"… Was a product of his generation, just as you are of yours," Cate recognised the flash of uncertainly in his eyes. She'd had the same self-doubts.

"You are going to be a fabulous father," she said, confidently. "You will indulge them both shamefully, allow them to wrap you around their little fingers and will refuse to see them as the imps of Satan they will undoubtedly become without the good offices of Nora Compton."

Smiling, he pulled her closer. "How can you be so knowledgeable about this?" he said. "You're as much a novice as I am. How did you become so wise?"

Sliding her arms around his waist, Cate breathed deeply as she relaxed against him. "Not wise," she murmured. "Merely pragmatic. I'm a teacher, don't forget."

"You are going to be a spectacular mother," Mycroft's voice was very soft. "You already are."

"This is a lovely room, husband-mine," she spoke into his lapel. "I can see myself spending hours in here. Thank you for this, it's wonderful."

"There's a little more to it than just this room," he said. Cate heard the smile in his voice and looked up.

"_More_?" she wrinkled her forehead. "What more can there be?"

Taking her hand again, Mycroft smiled airily. "Come and see."

Leading her out of the children's room, he drew her into their own suite. At least, Cate saw, it was where their suite _used _to be. Things had changed a little.

Instead of a single large bedroom with a small ensuite, there was now an enormous space as the master room and the adjacent guest suite opposite the nursery had been knocked into a single, much larger, L-shaped room, and their bed moved further around into the new space. The space where their bed had been now held a lounge area with a couple of comfortable armchairs, a sofa and several lamps on occasional tables. There was also a small desk with a lamp, between two of the long windows.

Where the door to their original ensuite had been, there was a new wall, beautifully papered in rich damask, even over the doors, of which there were now two. Yet the space behind them clearly occupied a much larger footprint than the old bathroom had done. Opening the nearest door, each one outlined only by the painted frame in the classic French style, Cate couldn't resist the massive grin that arrived on her face.

Mycroft had built her a luxury bathroom, complete with spa, a tiny sauna and all the opulence her hedonistic heart could possibly desire. In shades of gentle greens, creams and white, this was an oasis of sheer indulgence. Antique French mirrors adorned the walls, and gorgeous Italian glass-topped furniture provided sufficient storage for a massed display of towelry and toiletries.

There was a massive vase of freshly-cut Gardenias on a low round table.

_Ah_. The flowers he had bought.

It was sheer, unadulterated extravagance which must have cost a fortune and Cate fell instantly and permanently in love with it as he must have known she would, experiencing a terrible urge to try _everything _that very second. But as she hadn't seen the rest of their new bedroom yet, she curtailed her desires, though not without difficulty. Exiting the bathroom, she headed towards the second door.

Behind this one was a small but dedicated dressing-room, just for her, in further cool shades of pale green and grey. It already held the clothes and shoes she kept at the house and, she noted happily, there was plenty of room for more.

"This is breath-taking," she stared at his gratified expression, shaking her head in semi-disbelief. "What have you done around here?" Wide-eyed now with curiosity, Cate walked around to the other end of the huge L-shaped room. The fireplaces of both original rooms had been saved, and now, with two additional floor-to-ceiling windows, the entire space was awash with light and deliciously airy. There was also a new wall and duplicate twin doors at this end of the room.

Turning to him, she smiled unbelievingly. "_Really_?" she said. "His and hers?"

Merely raising his eyebrows, Mycroft waved her onwards.

Door one was a mirror-image of her own new dressing-room, and held several of his suits and coats. The colours in here were distinctly more masculine, and she could already make out the trace of Mycroft's preferred cologne.

The second door led to a new bathroom; not as large or as decadently fitted as hers, this one decked out in crisp navy and white and chrome. Everything was sparkling neatness. It was Mycroft to a tee.

"Separate bathrooms?" she said, smiling.

"I have it on good authority that such a thing has saved many a marriage."

Resting her palms against his chest, Cate laughed up at his deliciously superior teasing. "You think our marriage requires saving?" she murmured softly, her eyes focusing intentionally upon his mouth.

"I think our marriage is incredible," Mycroft's voice took on a husky edge as he slid a hand along the side of her jaw. "I think _you_ are incredible," he whispered, drawing her face to his. "_My love_."

###

His suffering was so intense that it would have to come down several magnitudes in order to begin achieving the classification of _pain_.

Opening his eyes slowly … _oh, so very, very slowly _… Greg Lestrade dared to try a slitted-glimpse of the world of anguish in which he currently existed. It was very nearly a mistake as the fraction of light sliced his brain in multiple lacerations.

Closing his eyes with a dreadful groan, Lestrade became aware of something cold and wet sliding down the skin of his face towards the back of his neck. He registered that he was lying down and that some vile and evil agency was torturing him with icily dripping water.

By the foul taste in his mouth, he had also been the intended victim of a poisoning effort, and his agony-riddled head testified to what had clearly been an attempted homicide-by-axe. Possibly cross-bow.

Somehow, he realised he was in his own flat, but where exactly, and how he had gotten here, he wasn't sure. A foiled kidnapping, perhaps, which would tie-in with the pain, the torture and the various attempts upon his life.

"Are you finally awake?"

The thunderous volume of Julia Garret's voice added yet another dimension to Greg's misery, as his eyes winced closed.

The cold and slightly soggy compress across his forehead was replaced by an even colder and soggier one, allowing further drips of icy water to chase each other around the back of his neck. In some ways, the freezing discomfort detracted from the other agonies, offering a marginal relief.

Garret looked down at the excessively drunken man she'd finally managed to get home. As soon as he sobered up, she was going to have a little chat with him about the foolishness of ever attempting to match her father in vodka-shots. She shook her head.

_It would never work between them_.

###

Stepping out of the Boing 747 at Heathrow's Terminal One, Talina Sarkis barely managed to restrain a cry of pleasure at the smell of a City she hadn't seen for nearly fifteen years.

Walking up the gangway into the terminal proper, her eyes absorbed the things that would never change, and the things that already had: the grey sky and the grey skyline; the sounds of eight million people, and the people themselves.

She had made it. She was here. _She had won_.

As her feet touched the carpet of the Gate, two men in dark coats appeared before her.

"_Madam Sarkis?"_ the taller one inquired. "This way, if you wouldn't mind," he added, taking her bag, his fingers gesturing forward.

"I have luggage to collect …"

"Already taken care of," the other assured her. "If you please, this way."

Escorted by the two of them, Talina saw they were heading down and out into a non-public area of parked cars. A dark sedan arrived and she was ushered into the back seat.

Within a relatively short space of time, the car had navigated through the early-afternoon traffic and drew up beside a Portland-stone building.

Bringing her through a small side-door and down several flights of stairs, her trusty escorts opened a simple door, and indicating she was expected to enter.

Shrugging, she did so. There seemed little alternative.

There was a table set between two facing chairs, and she took the one on the left, waiting.

Within minutes, the door opened.

"It's been a long time, Talina," said Mycroft Holmes.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

_A Promise Kept – The Story of the Ring – Come to Armenia – A Change of Plan – Freedom or the Alternative – An Unscheduled Departure._

#

#

It was his eyes that drew her attention first; their dark-blue assessment the same now as it had been fifteen years ago, as it had always been. In the past, she had seen those eyes bright with laughter and dark with fury, eventually growing cold with the deliberate elimination of feeling, but she had never seen them quite as they were now; grim and remote, observing her like something dead on a slab. She didn't care much for the sensation.

Turning from his unsmiling and detached regard, Talina Sarkis inspected the rest of him. Still tall, of course, that would not have changed, but there was an intrinsic tension about his lean height now that she did not recognise; a control that kept his body composed and still, as if even a high wind would barely ripple his hair. Hair in which there was as yet no grey, she noticed; still dark and clipped neatly, even severely, above his ears, though he was still battling with an unruly lock that never would comply with his barber's desires.

His skin was London-pale, she observed, faintly lined around the eyes and across the forehead, but as he would be … _what_ … in his mid-forties by now, his complexion was remarkably smooth, considering his life, his work. Considering it all.

Mycroft sat, watching her gaze at him, waiting for her evaluation to be over before he began to speak, unwilling to waste time or energy on false-pleasantries. He wanted to say as little as possible, lest he betray himself.

He was unwilling to speak first. _That hadn't changed in the least_, she realised: he was waiting; ready to summon the pitiless words, the remorseless reasoning that could cut and slice through human frailties deeper than any blade. If he was waiting for her to begin the discussion, then he could wait a little longer.

His clothes, she saw, were of a finer quality now than he used to wear; clearly bespoke; his suit of dark blue with its elegant lines and understated quality was set off by the select linen of his shirt and the eloquent claret gleam of silk at his throat and breast. Nothing of ostentation; everything unaffected, unobtrusive. A man in complete and effortless control of himself and the world through which he walked.

That he still carried the silver Hunter was evident by the loop of heavy chain that blinked in the light as he'd sat in the chair opposite. His hands lay at rest in his lap; a plain gold band on the ring-finger of his right hand. She smiled, weakly. He had said he would never remove it, and he hadn't lied.

A glint of something bright and silvery caught her eye and she flicked her gaze to the fingers of his left hand, noticing, for the first time, a circle on the ring-finger there. _Married_? Mycroft Holmes, _married_? She wondered who his partner might be. Socialite heiress? Some female of the British aristocracy, perhaps? Talina smiled to herself. His wife was likely off somewhere breeding gun-dogs and opening church fêtes in his beloved British countryside. Not really a wife, in that case.

He would probably spend most of his time alone or at his office, late into the evening. She smiled again. She could work with that; she could ensure he no longer felt cold at night.

"Hello, Mycroft," she relaxed into the uncomfortable little seat and spoke at last. "I wasn't expecting to see you so soon."

"Chakarian was working for me," his voice was mild, almost soothing. "I authorised your passport."

Ah_._ _Unexpected._

"You wanted me to come to London?" Talina smiled knowingly. _This might be even easier than she had thought._ "I'm flattered."

"Don't be," he said. "I had you brought here only to be quite sure you understood exactly why you are going to be sent back."

"You want me to go back to that dreary place?"

"_'Want'_ implies choice," Mycroft crossed his legs. "There is no choice in this matter."

"I would die before I return to that hellhole," Sarkis mirrored his position. "I was half-dead when I left; to force my return there now would be to sign my death-warrant," she folded her arms and shook her head adamantly. "I won't go. I'd prefer to die here."

"Of course," Mycroft lifted several fingertips, pausing delicately. "That can be arranged, but on the whole, I'd prefer you to live a very long and healthy life."

"You mean you want me to suffer for as long as humanly possible?"

He blinked slowly, but said nothing.

"Mycroft, it's been more than fifteen years," Talina leaned forward, resting her hands on the table between them. "_Fifteen years_. Don't you think I've paid for my sins? Don't you think that I've suffered every single day in every one of those years? Dispose of me if you must," she sat back, dismissively. "But do not send me back there or I'll go mad. I'm not the same person I once was."

"You expect me to believe you've changed?" Mycroft's faint smile was cynical. "You assume that mere _time_ would convince me of your rehabilitation? You have not become a fool, and to presume I have, is beneath even you."

"I have learned how to … _behave_," she looked bored. "I would not cause a problem for any one."

"I recall hearing you say almost those exact words fifteen years ago," Mycroft's lips curled in distaste. "They were a lie then and a lie now," he sighed, quietly. "You never used to be this naïve."

"I am beyond that kind of trouble anymore."

"A lie," he looked irritated.

"I seek only a small living in this world."

"Another lie."

"Let me go and you'll never hear from me again," Talina's eyes were huge, masked with a film of tears. "You have won; I have lost you, I know that now."

"The biggest lie of all," Mycroft snapped. "You will never be satisfied with anything other than complete subsumation of events to your desires."

"I promise never to bother you again if you will only let me be free," she whispered. "I have counted all the recent days of my life and they are grey and sad and wasted in that place."

His smile was unsympathetic. "And did you remember," he asked, his voice silky and dangerous. "On every single one of all those days, why you were there, in that place? A place where none of your sophistication and wit and charm could do you the slightest amount of good, where your evil, spiteful nature and cruel selfishness had only your own thoughts upon which to feast? Have you, in any of those long and dreary years, ever asked yourself exactly _why_ you were being kept there?"

"He was my husband," her grey eyes were sorrowful as they met his acid-blue glare. "I admit that what happened was deeply unfortunate and very wrong, but I have paid for it now."

"He was my oldest and dearest friend," Mycroft's words were bitter. "And I promise you will never finish paying for what you did to him."

"_You are not God!"_ Talina stood, abruptly. "You have no right to act as judge and jury and executioner, Mycroft Holmes!"

"You are quite right, _Madam Sarkis_," Mycroft nodded. "I have no right to be your executioner, which is precisely why I am returning you to Akhtala, so that you may live out your days, your very _long_ and _healthy_ days, in the quiet Armenian countryside."

He stood, walking towards the door.

"You still wear his ring," Talina sat back down. "I did not believe you would keep your promise."

"I always keep my promises," Mycroft's words were barely audible as he closed the door behind him.

###

Cate stared down at the piles of papers lined up on her desk. There was the conference schedule, already marked with the papers she especially wanted to hear, and the conversations to which she had already been invited. Then there was all the travel documentation, flights, hotel, itineraries, a pile of Euro banknotes in varying denominations and a list of phone numbers in case of emergencies. She smiled, shaking her head a little; _Mycroft and his_ _contingencies_.

There was also the transcript of her paper and her presentation. She done this enough times not to worry overmuch about which way it might end up taking place, as she had planned for several eventualities; her tiny Cruzer USB containing not only her new presentation, but several others of recent genesis, just in case anyone raised them in discussion. She had done everything she needed to do, assembled everything, checked and double-checked everything. Cate sighed in luxurious, unbelievable, relief.

_Finally_, she was done.

All that remained now was to make it to Vienna, give the speech, answer some questions, and then she could relax and simply listen to what the really clever people were saying; take some notes perhaps, for her planned monograph. Then she could come home, concentrate on getting really _really_ enormous, have a couple of babies and carry on with her life. _Easy_.

When Mycroft had asked her if she'd mind terribly were John to accompany her instead of Nora, she was actually quite relieved. Despite having been to a great many of these things before, it was going to be a pretty hectic few days, and the thought that someone like John would be there to help when things got a little manic, was a major relief, though she realised she couldn't let Mycroft know that she'd had had even the _slightest_ concern, or she'd never hear the end of it.

Their direct flight to _Schwetchat_ airport was scheduled to leave Heathrow at ten in the morning. That gave both she and John ample time to get themselves organised and to the airport with a minimum of fuss. Mycroft had insisted he take them there in the Jaguar, so she didn't even need to think about arranging a cab. John was to be at the townhouse by seven-thirty.

Cate checked her packing. She was only taking the one small bag, her trusty old briefcase and her laptop; it shouldn't be too difficult to manage everything.

Heading back down to the kitchen, she opened the refrigerator to locate the opened bottle of fizzy grape-juice to which she'd become slightly addicted in the last several weeks. Toasting her incredible brilliance in managing to arrange everything with such astonishing and perfect timing on a glass of the icy-cold pseudo-bubbly, Cate walked into the main lounge to her favourite sofa where she sat, her feet up and a smug smile on her face.

She heard the sound of the front-door being opened.

It wasn't Nora, as she wasn't due back until tomorrow; therefore it had to be Mycroft. But what was he doing home at such an early hour? Cate frowned. If he were checking up on her to see if she were doing too much as he usually claimed she was, then she was in exactly the right place. Cate relaxed even more, closing her eyes and continuing to smile.

"Glad to see you're doing what you're supposed to be doing for once," Mycroft's voice was oddly sharp, considering the situation, and Cate opened her eyes thoughtfully. He'd been very careful of recent, to ensure that his voice held nothing but contented tones, or, at the very least, nothing overtly negative. She had even begun to wonder if he'd been reading some of those terrifying 'positive birthing' texts. It was sincerely to be hoped not.

The fact that he was home early, that he sounded distinctly unhappy and that his expression, and she looked most particularly at his face, was drawn and tight; suggested that all was not well with her husband. Putting her glass down, she stood, walking over to him at the sideboard where he was pouring himself a rather large scotch. It was barely four in the afternoon.

Something was wrong.

Waiting until he'd taken a swallow of the smoky spirit, she slid her hand into his.

"Come and talk to me," she said, quietly.

"There's nothing to talk about, my darling," his shoulders were tight.

"You said you'd never lie to me," Cate rested the palm of his hand against her heart. "So come and talk."

Looking at her over the rim of the crystal tumbler, his eyes narrowed in deliberation. He stared down into an unflinching brown gaze.

"You won't want to hear what I have to say," his voice was low, ominous. "Best leave it, Cate."

Taking a deep breath, she leaned in against him, inhaling his scent, appreciating the warmth of his body through the cloth of his jacket.

"This support-through-marriage thing doesn't go in only the one direction, you know," she said, quietly. "If you don't tell me now, I'll merely assume you have embarked upon an _affaire_ with some pretty girl in your department and be devastated accordingly."

The look on his face as he turned to regard her was almost brutal.

Her heart thumped dreadfully. She had meant it as a joke … O_h, good God_ …

"Have you?" she asked, haltingly, a cold, sinking feeling in her stomach. "Tell me if you have, please," she added. "It would be the civil thing to do."

Still staring down at her, Mycroft's face suddenly relaxed into a rueful smile.

"As if I could ever consider an _affaire_ with anyone other than you," he shook his head, his fingers lifting to stroke the hair away from her face. "There's no illicit relationship, my love," he sighed deeply, leaning forward and staring down into his half-emptied glass.

"Then you better damn well tell me exactly what there is," Cate took a deep breath of her own. "Or you can pour me one of those," she nodded at the bottle of scotch.

"You can't drink," Mycroft's head came up as he looked at her critically.

"And I can't live with a husband who elects to suffer in silence," she added with finality. "So please choose, my love. Either you come over here and tell me your sorrows, or you can watch me drowning my own. The choice is yours."

"You can't drink," he repeated. "You don't want to drink. You don't even _like_ scotch."

Cate said nothing, only watched as his mind made itself up.

"Ah, _God_, Cate," he closed his eyes, rubbing a hand over his face. "The past never really goes away, does it?"

Holding his hand, she pulled him to the sofa. "Start at the beginning and tell me everything I need to understand," she said softly. "We have all night."

Throwing back the remains of the amber spirit, he inhaled slowly before turning to rest his eyes on her face. "This isn't a pretty story," he said. "Are you sure you want to hear it?"

Cate held his hand and raised her eyebrows a little "The sooner you tell me, the sooner it'll be over, she said.

"_Darling_," he looked down, gathering his thoughts. Lifting his eyes back to hers, he chose his words carefully.

"I spoke with a woman today from whom I have not heard in more than fifteen years," he began, pausing, as if stuck for the next part of the story. "Clever, witty, _chic._ A very beautiful woman," his voice tailed off. "She is … _was_ … extraordinary."

Cate nodded. This story had a long history; it was clearly important to the situation.

"She was … _is_, also extraordinarily egotistical, amoral and mercenary. Fifteen years ago," he paused again, "she was married to my closest friend; a man who was a stellar example of everything I held to be good and civilised in this world," Mycroft rested his head in both his hands. "Everything that was_ good_," he murmured. "He never stood a chance once she'd set her sights on him; he was utterly besotted with her," he added. "Could not see her for what she was."

"But this woman, by then his wife, decided she no longer wished to be associated with my friend and came to me, asking my help in arranging a divorce," he raised his eyes again. "I told her _no_."

"Why did she come to you in the first place?" Cate was curious. "Were you able to arrange such things?"

"I was able to do a great many … _things_," he said quietly. "It would have taken very little effort on my part to give her what she wanted, but I knew my friend would never have forgiven me, thus I refused to help."

"So you didn't arrange the divorce. What happened next?"

"When she saw I had no intention of doing what she asked, this woman took it upon herself to make my friend's life so hideously miserable that she was convinced he'd give her an annulment. She behaved atrociously towards him, did … _unspeakable_ things, _anything_ to get her way … she…" he paused again, searching for words. "She even flaunted herself in front of him with other men … and it broke his heart, Cate," Mycroft rested his face back in his hands. "He was destroyed."

A chilling sensation began to settle in her stomach. Whatever Mycroft's involvement in this tragedy, he hadn't finished yet. There was worse to come. She tightened her grip around his hand and took a deep breath.

"Go on," she said.

"When he finally saw her for what she really was, he couldn't live with it; he hanged himself, Cate," Mycroft's voice was barely audible. "My friend took his own life because this woman was his whole existence and she broke him," he looked up, his eyes dark and intent. "I was so enraged, I wanted her dead too."

Unsure what might be best to say, she floundered a little. "This is terrible," Cate rubbed the long fingers intertwined with her own. "_Dreadful_, but not your responsibility, surely? You did what you thought was the right thing to do at the time and had no way of knowing the result."

"One of the men she paraded in front of her husband was _me_, Cate."

_Oh God_. Her stomach swooped as the implications became clear.

"But … _how_," she asked. "If he was your best friend, how could you ..?"

"I was weak and she was a very good liar," Mycroft's face was grim. "But mostly because I was weak." He covered his eyes with his hands again. "He once told me that caring for her was its own advantage," he whispered, his voice ragged. "I have his blood on my hands, Cate. I carry, at least in part, the responsibility of his death."

"Oh, my darling," her throat tight with empathy, Cate's voice was very tender as she held his arm. "_How awful_."

Mycroft shook his head, he wasn't finished yet.

"After the funeral, she came back to me, insisting that everything she had done had been so the two of us could be together," his voice was strained. "She would not leave me be and I couldn't bear to see her, so I took steps to keep her away."

"And you saw her again today, after all these years? _Why_?"

"Because for the last fifteen years, I have kept her in exile, away from here, Cate; away from _me_ so that I wouldn't …" his voice tailed away.

_Wouldn't what?_

"Wouldn't what, my love?" she didn't want to know but knew she had to ask.

He looked at her, his eyes bleak, his face drawn and wearied, his words almost a groan.

"I think … I still want her dead, Cate."

Breathing through parted lips, she realised she had it all, now. The whole sordid thing.

"And she has come to London?"

"Yes. She managed to convince one of my agents she possessed valuable information, and so I had her brought to London where I met her this morning."

"Why did you bring her here?"

"Because I wanted her to know that she was still unforgiven, that I still could not bring myself to accept her presence anywhere near me."

"But if you consider your friend's death partly your fault as well as hers, then why is she the one to have suffered for all these years while you have been free?" Cate's egalitarian soul rose up in an instinctive desire for justice, regardless of who might be involved.

"I have not been free, darling," Mycroft sighed; holding up his right hand, tilting it so the gold of the ring caught the light. "I once told you that I wore this to remind me of a debt … this was _his_ wedding ring, and I swore I'd look at it each day to remind me …"

"_Oh, Mycroft_, _no_," as the awful realisation dawned on her, Cate's heart thudded in distress as she held his hand tight, covering the ring with her own fingers. "_No_, my love, no more of this. Enough, now. It's been long enough!" she cried. "It's time to let it go. Let her be, _let her go_. Let them both go."

"I don't know if I can," he rested his face back in his hands.

"Of course, you can," Cate pulled his fingers away so she could see his eyes. She spoke softly. "It's a thing you can do. Just let her go," she paused. "She has no power over you any more, has she?"

"No, not any more. Not really."

"Then make a phone call and set her free," Cate's smile was a little wobbly. "Let her go, my darling heart, and be free yourself."

With a quiet groan, his arms pulled themselves around her, holding her close to his chest, his face resting at her shoulder.

"It might be a mistake," he muttered.

"Then let it be a mistake and deal with it as such," Cate stroked his hair. "You're very good at fixing mistakes, or hadn't you noticed?"

"Do you despise me?" he hadn't relaxed his hold around her. His voice was a near-whisper into her shoulder. "Do you wish now that you hadn't married me?"

Winding her arms around his neck, Cate pressed her face against him.

"You are my life and I adore you," she murmured against his skin. "I only wish you'd felt able to share this exhausting secret with me a long time ago, you foolish man."

"You still love me," his words were not a question. "And you call _me_ foolish."

"How do you feel now?" Cate had sensed his body ease slightly against hers. "Would you like some tea?"

"No tea," his arms tightened fractionally, keeping her close. "I think I want to stay here for a while if you don't mind."

Cate smiled faintly and closed her eyes. She didn't mind.

###

"Yes, _alright_," he paused, waving his hands in mock surrender. "I promise never to go drinking with your father again and to run away screaming like a girl if he even _looks_ at a _wodka_ bottle." Lestrade turned to grin into her sceptical eyes. "Will that do?"

"Like a _girl_?"

"Okay, screaming like a _boy_, then."

"You're a bloody idiot. D.I. Lestrade," Julia Garret matched his grin. "And it will do entirely well as long as you mean it."

"_Oh_ yes," Greg sucked in a deep breath and looked sage. He remembered the piercing, stabbing, unremitting headache too well. "I don't think I've ever been more serious about anything in my life."

"Then I'm glad," Julia nodded. "Do you still want to come to Armenia with me to rescue the Aunties and bring them back to Britain?"

"I thought you'd never ask," he smiled again, waggling his eyebrows.

Garret lifted her eyebrows. "Give it a rest," she shook her head. "It's never going to work,"

###

John was early, but then, John was _always_ early. An army thing, apparently.

Still working her way through her first, and only coffee of the day, Cate was seated in the kitchen of the townhouse when he rocked up.

"All good to go?" he asked, bright and cheerful.

"_Soon_," Cate yawned, blinking. "Are you this lively every morning?"

"Only when I know I'm off on a posh trip to a posh city and a posh hotel for a few days," he smiled disarmingly. "Come on, up off the chair. Let's go."

Fixing him with a cold stare, Cate frowned. "Exactly what did my husband ask you to do?" she inquired.

Turning the chair next to her so he could straddle it, John smiled.

"He told me he was concerned about the most precious thing in his life," he said, quietly. "And asked me to make sure you came back to him in perfect condition."

Cate smiled, happily.

"You're a nice man, John Watson," she said. "Okay. Let's go."

Mycroft walked in, shrugging into his jacket. "Morning, John," he nodded. "Everything seems to be on time this morning."

"_'Cept_ _me_," Cate yawned again, walking over to her husband, she leaned her whole body against him, her eyes closed.

"It takes her a while, these days," Mycroft lifted his eyebrows at the doctor, an indulgent look on his face. "I'm sure you understand."

Smiling even more, the blonde man nodded. "Nothing surprising about that," he said. "Though it's as well the conference is this week and not in a month's time, or I'd suggest going by train instead of flying." John assessed Cate's shape from a medical perspective. "You'll be too far along to be comfortable flying, very soon."

"Then it's a good thing this is my last hurrah before D-Day," Cate smiled.

The Jaguar was waiting quietly at the front door and their bags were quickly loaded. Though peak traffic hadn't completely diminished, they were travelling against the main flow and made good time out to Heathrow, Terminal One.

As Cate stood by the wall of glass windows looking up at the departures board, Mycroft handed John a slim black phone. It was entirely screen on one side and strangely tessellated in black swirls on the other.

"This should handle any communication needs you might have," he said. "It's a totally secure number and shielded against all manner of electronic interference,"

"Very nice," John turned the elegant and expensive piece of high-tech in his fingers. "I assume your numbers are already on speed-dial?" he asked, grinning.

"Naturally," Mycroft nodded. "Consider this a small token of my thanks, Doctor Watson," he added. "If anything gives you the slightest concern, do not hesitate to summon assistance, the cost is immaterial," he turned to look at Cate, still staring up at the massive electronic board. "The _slightest_ concern," he repeated.

"Understood," John pocketed the phone, taking the boarding passes Mycroft's driver handed to him. The seat numbers were impressively low. John's eyebrows lifted in pleased surprise; Sherlock had been right: First-class all the way.

Turning back to Cate, Mycroft looked at her and sighed briefly, before extracting his own phone.

"Where are you?" his voice was neutral as he spoke into the Blackberry.

He focussed on his wife's brown velvet gaze.

"Give her the envelope and let her go," he said, quietly, staring into Cate's widening eyes. "Yes," he repeated, "she may go anywhere she pleases." The conversation over, he slid the phone back into his pocket.

"A good decision," Cate smiled admiringly up at him. "You're a wise man."

"I believe your perception may be slightly biased, my love," Mycroft's voice was mild. "Time you were off, I think."

"Then kiss me goodbye and wish me luck at the conference."

Holding her carefully in his arms, Mycroft brushed her lips gently with his own, smiling as her hands slid around his neck. She was becoming a little too generous around the middle to handle the manoeuvre easily and he had to bend closer to her.

"I love you, Mycroft Holmes," she whispered fiercely in his ear.

Straightening up, the elder Holmes smiled lopsidedly. "Please do whatever John advises you to do," he said. "I am rather fond of you, you know."

Coughing diplomatically, John looked up at the departure board. "They'll be calling our flight soon," he noted. "We should head to the gate."

"Yes, we should," Cate smiled up at her husband. "See you in a few days, darling."

Nodding, a tight little smile on his face, Mycroft raised his eyebrows at John. "Please take great care of my wife, Doctor," he said, before turning briskly and walking away.

Cate felt a momentary pang of sadness.

"Come on then," John folded her hand into his elbow and turned her in the direction of the departure gates. "Let's go and get the free champagne."

"I can't drink champagne," she scowled.

"More for me, in that case," John grinned. "Race you."

###

They had come for her early in the morning, after she had spent a quiet night at a nondescript hotel with a guard at her door the entire time. She had been told she would be leaving by plane on an early flight back to Yerevan, where she would be met by agents and driven back to Akhtala, at which point the previous _status quo_ would be resumed.

Talina was almost ready to concede a temporary defeat – yet whatever Mycroft did now, she knew they'd never be able to keep her in Akhtala after this. It would be merely a question of time before she slipped through their fingers again.

Thus, she was not entirely depressed when, as good as their word, her two warders knocked on her door just as the day was growing light. Collecting her suitcase, they escorted her down to the same black sedan she had arrived in the previous day, and the three of them drove to Heathrow. It had grown much bigger in the years she'd been absent from Britain; concrete and glass everywhere, with confusing walkways and laneways and _No Parking_ bays.

She had been taken through some swing-doors around the back of the security desks – her belongings being shunted swiftly through the relevant checks and scans.

In an amazingly short period of time, she was waiting by one of the gates in Terminal One, where a British Airways flight BA122, Boeing 747 direct flight to Yerevan, was at the gate undergoing pre-departure checks.

She wondered if Mycroft might deign to come and see her off. Probably not, given the tone of their discussion yesterday. Waiting, unable to go anywhere or do anything, Sarkis stared out of the glass windows at the planes of the runways, the baggage carts, the little yellow tractors and the people. Always so many people: that hadn't changed at all.

The taller of her two keepers dipped into an inner pocket to answer his ringing phone.

"At Heathrow, waiting for the Yerevan flight," he said, in obvious answer to a question. "What do you want us to do?"

He paused, listening, his eyebrows lifting slightly. "Anywhere she wants?" he turned to look at him compatriot. "_Right_," he said. "Will do."

Pocketing the phone, he turned to the woman standing between them.

"Looks like there's been a change in plan," he said. "And it's your lucky day. _Here_," he said, offering Talina a very thick white envelope. "Mr Holmes says that you can go wherever you want to go, and that you should have this as well."

Waiting to be sure that she understood she was free to go, the two men turned and quickly walked back through the security area, leaving her standing by the windows, envelope in hand, suitcase at her feet, a stunned expression on her face.

Once she was sure it wasn't some horrible kind of joke, Talina opened the package. Inside were several bundles of high denomination currency, at least forty- or fifty-thousand pounds worth, as well as a the details of a Swiss account that had been opened in her name, with the current balance set at fifty-thousand pounds. There was a note inside the envelope. It was in his handwriting.

_It would be dangerous for us to meet again_.

Talina leaned against the nearest window, staring out at nothing. She was free. Mycroft Holmes had changed his mind and, instead of using force to keep her away, was attempting to buy her off.

She smiled. _He had been correct_. She never had been satisfied with anything less than absolute success. The question now, was what to do next? She was free to go anywhere she pleased; he had returned the passport that Chakarian had arranged for her, and, with the money in her hands, she was a comparatively wealthy woman.

So, what to do?

As she pondered her new freedom and new wealth, Talina found herself staring through the window in front of her, across the loading-bay beneath, through to a similar window on the opposite side of the terminal. She frowned as her brain registered what it was she was actually seeing.

_Mycroft Holmes_.

As she watched, perplexed, a dark-haired woman standing beside him turned and slid her arms around his neck, holding him tight. As he bent down to bring her closer, Talina saw that the woman was quite obviously expecting a child.

Mycroft Holmes and his _wife_? His noticeably _pregnant_ wife?

Watching what was just as obviously a farewell scene, Talina looked on, fascinated, as the man who had taken the last fifteen years of her life, who had denied her any chance of a normal relationship, stood with his arms around a woman who was plainly in love with him. The fact that someone like Mycroft would even consider returning the woman's affection openly and in a public place, suggested that he was as little concerned about demonstrating his feelings as his wife.

This was a very different man to the one she knew of fifteen years ago; back then, he had been reluctant to even touch her hand beyond the privacy of a locked room.

A slow burn began in her head; Talina felt her skin flush with rage as the full picture expanded before her. While she had been imprisoned, kept forcibly away from everything that was important to her, _he_, her gaoler, her _prison guard_, had been enjoying a new life, a new family. It was unforgivable. It was not to be borne. _It was not fair_.

In an instant, Talina knew exactly what she was going to do, but she realised she had little time to orchestrate her plan.

She would have to move quickly and with very great care.

###

As both of their bags were of a size sufficiently small to be carried within the cabin, John handled them with ease as he and Cate stepped into the First-class seating area. Greeted immediately by a smiling steward, the bags were taken from him and stowed, while they were shown to two seats adjacent to the portside windows.

The wide, pale cream seats were exceptionally comfortable, with masses of leg-room and all the creature comforts. Helping Cate into the window seat, John relaxed in the one next to her.

"I could get used to this, you realise," he muttered, watching the _hoi-polloi_ marching past into cattle-class.

"You could easily attend conferences," she said. "Medical ones. Why don't you?"

"It's not the conferences themselves," he said, smiling. "It's the necessary wherewithal to pay for them that's the problem."

"Then you should get your own practice," she patted his arm. "I'd be happy to have you as my doctor."

"Really?" he sounded surprised.

"The minute you open your door, I'll be your first patient."

"Excuse me, _Madam_, _Sir_," the smiling steward was back with a small tray of drinks. "Would you care for a glass of champagne while we wait for the pre-flight checks to be completed?"

John smiled broadly. "I'd love one, please," he said, smiling teasingly at Cate.

"Although your bedside manner could be improved," she muttered, peeved. "Odd how you can suddenly go right off some people."

Snorting into his glass of fizzy. John relaxed and closed his eyes.

"Would Madam care to try our de-alcoholised champagne? It's very palatable."

"Madam most certainly _would_," Cate was not about to sit and watch John enjoying her trip more than she could.

Eventually, the stream of passers-by had gone and the plane was just waiting, it seemed.

"_Apologies_, ladies and gentlemen," the steward was back. "There's a late-boarding passenger who got caught up in a ticketing problem, but we've been told they're on their way. Won't be long before we can taxi-back."

"I'm in no rush whatsoever," John sighed, happily lying back in his big, soft, roomy seat. He'd never flown First before, and this was a far cry from piling into the back of a Mil Mi-17, with forty kilos of pack, a hefty SA80, half-a-dozen spare mags, plus his medic gear.

There was a flurry of activity as a woman in a bright pink coat and neon-green pants flew in the doorway, waving her boarding-pass at the ever-smiling stewards and offering a flustered apology.

"_Massive_ stuff-up with ticketing," she declared to all and sundry. "Put me on _entirely_ the wrong flight." Floating across the aisle from John, she fell into the one vacant seat still left in the First-class cabin. "Too, _too_ exhausting," she announced, flailing with her seatbelt as the plane was finally able to begin its departure.

Turning to Cate, John widened his eyes. "Takes all sorts," he whispered, grinning. "How is that seatbelt for you? Did they provide the expanded belt as requested?"

"Yes_, Doctor_," Cate rolled her eyes. "Are you going to do this all the time?"

"Do what all the time?"

"Be a doctor?"

John considered the question. He also considered several alternatives until he recalled Mycroft's face as he had turned and walked away. The alternatives faded like mist.

"_Yeah_," he said. "I think I probably will. Suck it up, _Professor_."

"Whatever Mycroft offered you, I'll double it if you promise to behave like a normal human being," Cate looked deadly serious.

"Sorry," he sipped his wine. "I never renege on a deal, and certainly never one I've made with your husband."

"_Wimp_," Cate folded her arms in mild disgust and stared out of the window.

Laughing, John waved at the smiling steward for a refill.

As the plane reversed back out of the gate and onto its taxiing path, the woman in the pink coat sighed as she relaxed into her plush seat across the way from John.

"Such a nightmare," she sighed. "Nearly ended up in _Warsaw_."

"But you made it, so all's well," he said. For all her bizarre taste in clothes, she was an attractive woman; clearly a little weird, _but_ _hey_; he was on holiday. Kind of. He could talk to eccentric, good-looking women if he wanted.

"John," he said, smiling, holding out his hand.

"Hello, _John_," she smiled, taking his hand. "My name's Chinar Parisyan."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

_A Serpent Bares Its Fangs – Redefinition of Personal – A Rescue of Aunties – Cate Goes Shopping – Tales of A Train Spotter – Twenty Minutes to Kill – Terrible Danger._

#

#

Once the plane had levelled-off, John slipped out of his seat-belt and turned towards the brightly caparisoned female across the aisle.

"That's an interesting name," he cringed … _what was he, sixteen?_ "Where's it from?"

My family are from Armenia," Talina lied easily, smiling across at the reasonably appealing British man. "Have you travelled much in Eastern Europe?"

"Not so much the Eastern part," John smiled back. "Been to Russia and spent a fair bit of time in Afghanistan, if that counts."

"_Ah_," Talina sized the blonde man up. "You are an officer in the British Army," she nodded knowledgeably. "I can tell."

"Now how can you possibly know that?" John shook his head. This woman was no Sherlock. "I might be in the freighting industry."

"No," Talina shook her head. "The way your hair is cut and the way you move your head as you look at things, tells me _soldier_," she said. "That you are blonde and handsome and confident tells me _British officer_."

It was with some difficulty that John avoided a little preen.

"You are very frank, Ms Parisyan," he smiled. She had wonderfully deep grey eyes, he noticed.

"Oh, _please_," Talina waved her fingers. "_Chinar_. Life is far too short for formality at our age."

"And what is life at our age good for?" John's voice dropped naturally as he moved smoothly into flirt-mode.

"Shouldn't you be having this conversation with your wife?" Talina raised her eyebrows, nodding at Cate, currently poring over the conference schedule.

With a smile that crinkled his eyes, John laughed quietly. "Actually, not my wife," he started to say; almost laughing again as he saw Chinar's eyebrows lift even higher, mockingly scandalised.

"The wife of a friend; more a patient, than anything else. I'm keeping her company in Vienna for a few days while she attends a conference: her husband didn't want her there all alone."

"_Patient_?" Talina looked impressed. "_So_," she smiled even more, lowering her voice and leaning closer over the armrest of her seat. "Vienna, you say? I am heading there too … _Doctor_," she murmured. "I may be in need of medical advice myself."

"Really?" John made no attempt to hide his examination of her body. "Doesn't look like you have much medically wrong with you from where I'm sitting," he blinked leisurely, wondering just how far this discussion was likely to go.

"_Oh_, but I have terrible problems with my heart, _Doctor_," Talina slid the fingers of her right hand beneath the wide-open neckline of her silk shirt, where she stroked the flesh above her breast. "My heartbeat is sometimes very erratic when I'm in bed."

"Does that line actually work?" he laughed, resting his chin in his hand. "_I have an erratic heartbeat in bed?_" he shook his head. "Next you'll be telling me you don't like to sleep alone because you're frightened of the dark."

Clapping her hands together, delighted, Talina knew she had piqued the man's interest – not that hard a thing to do – he was, after all, just a man. She smiled, widely.

"Life is too brief to be subtle," she laughed. "Where are you staying in Vienna, and how long will you be there?"

"We're going to be at the _Hotel de France_, I believe, until the Professor's conference is over."

_Professor? Mycroft had married for intelligence rather than money?_

"I see your … companion … is _enceinte_," Talina spoke softly. "Why are you accompanying her and not her husband? Does he not care for her now she is getting big?"

Raising his eyebrows, John shook his head. "You couldn't be more wrong," he smiled. "He's just unable to get away right now, and why I'm acting as escort in his place. _Anyway_," he shook his head, oddly uncomfortable to include Cate or Mycroft in this conversation. "What are you going to be doing in Vienna?"

"I write for _Vogue_," Talina threw the statement in so casually that it was scarcely a lie at all, in fact not even that. She _had_ written for the French magazine many years ago. Before she'd been so ruthlessly exiled. "I'm doing a piece on professional women."

"Then you should speak with the Professor," John nodded agreeably as the passing steward offered him a refill. "She would know dozens of them."

"I might just do that," she smiled again. "As long as you and I have time to arrange our own professional _discussion_ at some point."

John could hardly believe it. It must be the altitude or something, but he'd never had such a gorgeous woman chat him up this quickly or obviously before. He found the experience rather thrilling.

The smiling steward returned, minus the smile.

"_Apologies_, Doctor," she said. "But there's a child in economy who seems to be having breathing difficulties and the Captain wants to know if we need to put back to London … we were wondering if you might examine the infant to assess situation for us?"

Sighing slightly and handing the half-empty glass back to the steward, John turned to Cate, still wading through the conference program.

"Duty calls, I'm afraid," he said "There's a child with problems and they want me to take a look; shouldn't be long."

Accepting the emergency medical bag carried on all British Airways flights, John accompanied the steward back into the Economy section.

"Your companion is a good man," Talina sipped her wine and spoke across the gap between their seats to Cate.

"I'm sorry?" Cate looked up, her mind elsewhere.

Looking face-on at the woman who had managed to snare Mycroft Holmes, Talina was fascinated, wondering what she'd find. She would have expected wild beauty or something representing vast wealth and position, or a business-empire, but she saw none of this.

In fact, what met her gaze was disappointingly unadventurous. A dark-haired woman of slim build, though burgeoning now with child; perceptive, dark eyes and a generous smile. Attractive, yes; but nothing spectacular_. And a teacher_, albeit a professor, but hardly of any value at all. Somewhat ordinary and unexciting, really. Talina wondered what on earth Mycroft had seen in the woman – she was hardly a catch.

"Your doctor friend," she indicated the rear of the plane with her head. "He's a nice man, happy to help others."

"John?" Cate smiled in agreement. "Yes," she nodded. "A very pleasant man and a good friend."

"Have you been to Vienna before?" Talina found herself examining the dark-haired woman in the far seat in very careful detail; exactly what was it about her that had convinced Mycroft she was worth marrying?

"Several times; it's a wonderful city," Cate looked at the other woman and thought her quite stunning. "And you?"

"I write for several magazines," Talina continued the journalistic fabrication. "Doing a piece for _Vogue_ right now on the problems faced by professional European women."

"_Ha_," Cate exhaled shortly. "Being six-months pregnant and trying to use a laptop or a fold-down table on an aeroplane, for starters," she scoffed. "Very few industries seem to understand that an increasing number of their people and their customers are actually women, and women in senior positions, at that."

"May I quote you?" Talina pulled out her phone.

"If you think I'm worth quoting," Cate grinned. "Who else have you spoken with so far?"

Slipping out of her own seat and into John's, Talina thought quickly. "A number of women in the advertising and modelling industries," she said. "I really need to speak with someone in government or education now."

"I teach at a university, if that's any help?"

"That would be _perfect_," Talina smiled. _Perfect indeed. She had them both, now._

By the time John returned after deeming the small child was suffering from little more than a coughing-jag, the two women were in the middle of a comprehensive discussion. Shrugging, he slipped into Talina's seat and was immediately handed both a glass and an unopened bottle of the very decent champagne.

"_With compliments from the Captain_, Doctor," the smiling steward was back. "You have been enormously helpful, thank you."

Smiling, as he sipped from the new glass of fizzy, he realised he could very easily become used to this standard of travel, but he was also rational enough to realise it wouldn't last, so he may as well enjoy every moment of it.

Turning his head to look at the two women, he saw they were chatting away and not his problem for the moment. Finishing the champagne, he relaxed down into the incredibly comfortable seat and closed his eyes. Within a minute, he was asleep, an old army habit he'd managed not to lose.

"_So_," after a suitable discussion of the state of higher education, Talina moved into the area she really wanted to talk about. "Tell me about your husband," she said, smiling artlessly. "John mentioned he wasn't able to accompany you to Vienna, is this also a problem for the professional woman of today? Busy husbands?"

Cate sat back in her chair, laughing. "My husband is always busy," she smiled. "It's a question of priorities, and I'm exactly the same – whatever is the most important gets the time."

"And he believes his work is more important than looking after his pregnant wife?"

Grinning, Cate shook her head. "No, but his _wife_ thinks his work is more important than her being looked after, and besides," she grinned again. "I'm hardly a shrinking violet," she said. "I don't require anyone to look after me, although," she added in a conspiratorial semi-whisper, "sometimes, it's quite nice."

"Then why the doctor?" Talina looked backwards over her shoulder at the sleeping beauty.

"I'm carrying twins," Cate placed her palms on top of her increasingly generous abdomen and smiled wide-eyed, still slightly amazed at the fact. "And it's becoming a little hard to manage these _and_ suitcases at the same time."

_Twins?_ Talina felt a savage resentment begin to rise inside her again. An entire family? _How dare Mycroft Holmes aspire to such a life when he had denied her the same opportunities?_ How dare he have a home and a family and a future, when she couldn't?

It was at that moment that Talina Sarkis realised the perfect retribution for Mycroft's ruination of the last fifteen years, for the loss of her past freedom and for the undoubted misery and loneliness of her future. It was perfectly simple. He had taken everything she valued; therefore, she would do the same.

His wife would have to die.

###

The suite Anthea had booked for them at the _Hotel de France_ was little short of sensational, and John suddenly became very self-conscious about the gear he'd packed. Not that he was terribly worried about what he might look like, but he didn't want to show Cate up.

"Then you'll have to allow me to buy you something comfortable to wear," Cate grinned at his sheepish confession. "I planned on getting myself something nice to wear and I usually do the same for Mycroft, so since you are my _de facto_ carer for a few days, I think the same argument must apply to you."

"Cate, I can't accept anything from you, you know that."

"Why? Because you don't trust me or because you don't like my taste in clothes?"

"It's neither of those things, and you know that too."

"They're the only valid arguments I can think of."

"I can't accept gifts from you like this … it's too personal."

Sighing quietly, Cate dropped her coat over the back of a sumptuous_ Louis Quinze_ chair, and walked over to a man who had rapidly become one of her closest friends. Smiling gently, she leaned close, resting a hand on his good shoulder.

"I have never heard you talk such complete and utter bollocks, John Watson," she murmured, looking at him with calm eyes. "You have saved both mine and Mycroft's lives at least twice to my certain knowledge; you have supported me through all manner of drama, and have never been anything less than a wonderful friend in the time we've known each other; you stood up with me at my wedding; you've slept under my roof and have seen me at my worst and my best, and now you're here, staying in the same suite as me, looking after the next generation of the Holmes dynasty. If you think me buying you a couple of shirts is too personal after all that, then I think you need to re-evaluate your definition of _personal_."

John was contemplative for a few moments, squinting at her with one eye semi-closed.

"You're starting to sound just like Mycroft, d'you know that?"

Laughing, Cate leaned against the blonde man's arm. "I rarely get the opportunity to buy men's clothes as Mycroft has most of his tailored and anyway, I'm pregnant, so you have to indulge me," she grinned, walking away to the bar-fridge and extracting a large bottle of Badoit mineral water, pouring herself a glass.

"Which means you can either go and get yourself a couple of outfits and choose what you'd _really_ like and sign the bill to the room, or I'll get what _I think_ you'll like, and you'll just have to risk it," she sipped the icy water, looking him up and down and waggling her eyebrows. "You'd look great in Armani."

Looking somewhat more philosophical, he whistled soundlessly. "_Well_," he said. "If you put it like that …"

###

"The trip takes three days by train?" Lestrade examined the itinerary. "Three days and two nights?" he smiled, cheerfully. "_I see_."

"Not even the hope of a chance, _Inspector_," Julia walked to the side of the table with two mugs of tea. "Besides," she said. "Those cabins are tiny and hardly conducive to … _well_, to anything, really."

"So you've thought about it, then?" a distinctive smile tilted the corners of his mouth as he lifted his eyes sideways to hers. He was rewarded with a shrivelling glance.

"Why the train?" he asked, still grinning. "Why not fly? Much, much quicker."

"And also much _much_ more expensive," she looked judicious. "Plus my dad used to work on the railways and still gets cheap tickets; especially important when there's going to be five of us coming back."

"You know I'd be more than happy to pay my way," Lestrade sat back, folding his arms. "Then you'd probably feel a deep obligation towards me which I could exploit in all kinds of interesting ways." Greg knew he was pushing it, but he couldn't help himself. She was fun to wind up.

"Not going to happen, so forget it," Garret shook her head, decisively. "Train leaves St Pancras; goes via Brussels, Köln, Sophia, Istanbul and then to Yerevan. That's where we have to hire transport and it's a two-and-a-half hour drive up into the mountains to get to Akhtala and the Aunties."

Sighing loudly in unabashed disappointment, but now all business, Lestrade looked at the map of Europe spread out across Julia's kitchen table where they'd met to discuss the finer details of the trip.

"And exactly who are these _Aunties_?" Greg thought it might be helpful to know who they were supposed to collect.

"Not really my aunties," Julia smiled, shaking her head. "More like my Great-cousins twice removed on my father's side," she sat, shrugging. "Three old ladies who want to be with their families when they eventually die, I suppose," she sipped her tea.

"Ayda's really a _Great-great_ something," she continued. "The old darling has to be at least a hundred, and Tapni and Karun are her daughters, and they're around eighty or so."

Lestrade nearly choked.

"We're dragging three ancient old biddies all the way across Europe without an ambulance? He was aghast. "What happens if one of them … you know," Greg wasn't sure how to tactfully articulate his thoughts.

"In case one of them carks it half-way through Turkey?" Julia laughed. "Those old dears are as tough as boots," she grinned. "Ayda brews rotgut vodka in her shed, and apparently Tapni has a toy boy."

"_Toy boy?_" Lestrade raised his eyebrows.

"In his seventies," Garret had a problem with her tea and started coughing. "Got to hand it to the oldies," she gasped, still laughing. "They know how to enjoy life."

"Good God," Greg wondered now what he was getting himself into.

"Still game?" she teased him, her hazel eyes crinkling with humour and shining with laughter.

His stomach shimmied with reaction.

"Oh yeah," he said, looking directly into her amused eyes. "You have no idea how much I want to do this."

Julia stopped laughing as his gaze held her still. Her chest felt suddenly heavy. She took a deep breath as the moment passed.

_Good_," she nodded, taking the mugs back to the sink. "Then that's very good."

###

"Cate is planning to phone you later this evening, I believe," John answered Mycroft's call on his swanky new phone. "Yeah," he added. "Everything went fine, no problems on the flight or with customs or the hotel, in fact," he smiled, looking around the fabulously lavish suite. "It's not a bad little lodging at all."

"_Not a bad little lodging?_"

John's smile widened as he caught the tone of a Holmes being faintly scandalised, as if he'd just heard the Queen being called _Mrs_ Windsor.

"And where is my wife now?" Mycroft couldn't help himself. Apart for mere hours and he was already considering missing her.

"She's having a look through some of the hotel shops on the ground-level," John rolled his eyes, knowing only too well what Cate was probably doing. The fact that he had asked her not to buy him anything probably made as much an impression as a butterfly landing on Everest.

"I was going to accompany her, but she went down with a woman she met on the plane and they clearly didn't want me hanging around," he snorted. "She promised not to leave the hotel without letting me know, so I'm not abandoning my charge."

"What woman?"

"Oh, some journalist who was on the same plane as us," John looked at his watch, he was getting a little hungry and they'd not had lunch yet. Cate should have some nourishment. "In fact," he added. "I should be going to look for her as it's time she ate something."

There was a slight pause on the line.

"You're going to tell Cate to eat?"

"Yes, why? Is that a problem?"

"Not in the slightest, Doctor," Mycroft sounded perfectly normal, although John thought he detected a note of … _nah_. "I shall await her call later."

Ending the conversation, John pocketed the phone, slung on a jacket and headed downstairs. The long marble passageways were muffled with the thickest, richest carpeting he'd ever seen. You could probably cut it up into sections and sell each bit as a mattress; it felt softer than his own bed at home.

Stepping out of a lift reminiscent of the very early pre-war years' _mechanology_, John turned right, heading towards the small clutch of extraordinarily select emporia, all of which, it seemed, had dispensed entirely with such mundanity as price-tags.

Passing through a _Cartier-Tiffany_ boutique, John heard a familiar voice and headed across towards a clothing shop.

Even the smell of the place was expensive, as exquisite things of silk and wool and the purest of linens hung in hushed rows in the Austrian afternoon. He looked around for Chinar, but she was nowhere in sight.

"Ah, _John_!" Cate, her hands full of fabric, was delighted. "What _brilliant_ timing," she guided him carefully over to a very tall mirror. "Stand quite still, please."

Bemused, he did as he was bid, allowing his jacket to be removed and his arms lifted, as he was variously measured, turned, frowned at and muttered about.

"Cate, you need to eat," he smiled a little reluctantly as he was turned yet again. "You can't wait until dinner in your condition, so do you want to eat in the suite or go somewhere?"

"And I think that one in the grey, and the other in the dark-blue," Cate smiled happily at the sales assistant. "Plus the jacket and the trousers and the two shirts and the blue sweater, please."

Turning to grin at John's bemused expression. "I'm starving," she laughed, clearly having fun. "I don't want anything as formal as a restaurant, let's do that for dinner, but there are several very nice cafés in the hotel; we can try one of those."

"If Madam permits?" the _Aushilfsverkäufer_ indicated with her fingers. "There is a delightful new café on the second-floor of the hotel," she suggested. "_Der Sommerpalast_ is already noted for its wonderful food and excellent service, and there is no service-charge for guests."

"_The Summer Palace_ it is, in that case," Cate hooked her arm through John's and strolled out of the shop.

"Don't you have to … you know … _pay_ for any of that?" he was curious as to how these things worked.

"Mycroft and I have an account here," she said. "It's already been taken care of, so _suck it up_, _Doctor_," she snickered, using his own words against him.

"He phoned a few minutes ago, by the way," John said as they were shown to a table by a window overlooking the _Ringstrasse_. It was an unbelievably beautiful view. "Wanted to know if everything was okay, what you were doing, who you were with, their security clearance-level; the usual things."

Examining the absolutely massive Caesar salad that appeared in front of her, Cate was philosophical. "He worries about everything outside his direct protection," she muttered, crunching her lettuce. "He … _wow_ …"

Looking up sharply, John focused on Cate's wide-eyed stare.

"_What_?" he demanded immediately concerned. "What is it?"

"Come here, quickly," Cate beckoned him with her fingers. "Put your hand just here," she added, showing him exactly where, as he laid his fingertips carefully towards the left side of her belly … and within a couple of seconds, felt a profound bumping from within. A couple of seconds later, there was another one. He grinned.

"She does this every time I think about her father," Cate shook her head, sighing. "I think she's impatient to meet him."

Back in his own chair, John attacked his seafood crepe. "Sure it's her?" he asked, "and not him?" he grinned. There was no way Cate could be sure.

Putting down her silverware, she looked at him thoughtfully. "Women tend to respond in similar ways to similar stimuli … I know this is my daughter reacting and not my son," Cate lifted her eyebrows. "Besides," she added. "He's on this side and she's over here," she patted her left. "However they both react equally when he talks to them."

"Mycroft talks to the babies?" John's expression grew amused. "_What_ … he reads to them, or something?" The idea of someone like Mycroft: stiff and proper and occasionally menacing, holding conversations with his unborn children, gave John hope for the world.

Cate's eyes went soft. "Something like that," she smiled.

"You know twins can come early, don't you?" he asked, looking at her face, smiling at the indulgent look in her eyes. "Especially if they grow quickly and run out of room to expand, although," he said, assessing her shape. "You've got a while before that's a concern."

"My obstetrician has talked about a C-section," she shrugged. "I think it'll depend on what happens at the time, and I have no plans to worry about it before I have to."

"That's the most sensible way," John took a swig of the House _lager._ It was magnificent. He sighed with pleasure: he definitely could get used to this.

"Where's your journalist buddy gone?" he asked.

"Chinar had to go and meet someone at the university," Cate went back to her crunching. "Apparently she's meant to be interviewing someone there tomorrow or the next day at the conference."

"She's going to be at the conference too? What a coincidence," John sipped his beer.

###

The leg of the journey from London to Brussels was to be on one of the Eurostar trains, its high-speeds and smooth ride a genuine pleasure to someone who had always liked trains.

"Don't tell me you use to wait in the sidings with a note-book and pencil, writing down all the carriage numbers?" Julia laughed as he stowed their cases in the baggage section.

"Mock not the Train Spotter," Lestrade found their seats. "I could tell you some stories that would make your hair curl," he murmured, ominously.

They weren't going to be in Brussels for another two hours, so anything that might pass the time was helpful.

"Go on then," she said, daring him. "I like horror-stories."

"On your own head be it," Greg sighed. "There was this guy who found a half-eaten corpse once; in one of the old coal trucks … there were two kinds of teeth-marks. Rat and _human_ …"

###

The results of Cate's shopping spree awaited them upon their return to the suite. Lying smoothly across John's bed were two suits; An Armani and a Lanvin; a rich, tobacco-coloured, Hugo Boss leather jacket; two shirts, a deep, silky-blue Lauren sweater and a spare pair of trousers. The shop had even included a complimentary silk tie and pocket-square with each of the suits.

John was speechless.

"_Cate_!" he shouted from his room. "In here, please."

"Whatever's the matter?" she dashed in, only to look immediately in the direction of his pointedly pointing finger. _Ah_.

"Is _that_ all?" she said, raising her eyebrows, relaxing. "I thought there was something seriously wrong for a second," she stroked the sleeve of the luxurious jacket. "You've no-one to blame but yourself if you don't like these, but they'd be easily exchanged."

_Didn't like them? These things had the same labels as Sherlock's wardrobe._

"You said 'a couple of shirts'," he puckered his brow. "Implying _two_ shirts."

"I've always had a problem with anything numeric," her expression was delighted. "Try the blue suit," she suggested. "It will look fabulous with your eyes."

Meeting her own eyes, John folded his arms and looked circumspect.

"Oh, _please_, John," Cate lifted up the blue suit. "Please? I promise to be the absolutely _model_ pregnant person for the next three days if you wear this suit at dinner tonight."

He was still horribly torn.

"Please John," Cate touched his arm. "I've never had the pleasure of buying things for a brother. Please let me have that, this one time."

He threw up his hands. "This is flagrant coercion, you realise?"

"Of course it is," Cate grinned happily. "And you are being very sweet about it," she yawned. "I think I'm going to have a little nap before I make myself presentable for dinner."

"In which case, I'm going to go for a walk while you snooze," he motioned out of the nearest balconied window. "This place is stunning and I want to have a look around while I have the chance."

"I shall be right here," she yawned again. "I get so sleepy at the oddest times, these days."

"Yeah," he murmured, slipping into the unbelievably soft leather of the Boss jacket and heading to the door. "No idea at all why that might be. Back soon."

Blinking to keep her eyes open, Cate plodded to her own room where she unplugged the phone, drew the heavy drapes, blocking out the afternoon sunlight, before wrapping herself in a long silk robe and crawling into the big soft bed. For a moment, she could have sworn she'd seen Chinar standing across the boulevard from the hotel, but that particular shade of pink was not unique, so it could have been anyone.

Stretching out carefully along the length of the cool, smooth bed, with its fresh linen scent of citrus and lavender, Cate was asleep almost before she had closed her eyes.

Heading down towards the _Donaukanal_, John quickly found himself whistling softly as he took out his new phone and began taking scenic snapshots of the river, the immaculate and astonishing buildings, of the parks around him. It seemed he was smack in the middle of University territory, as almost every second sign pointed to something else that was _Universität_ this or the other. It truly was a brilliant place. He smiled as the sun warmed his skin, his pace slowing, his gaze increasingly reflective.

Talina Sarkis leaned back into the shadows of an old stone wall as she recognised John emerging from the hotel entrance and cross the _Ringstrasse_. By the way he was staring around and taking his time, it was clear he was out for an afternoon stroll … which meant that Mycroft's wife, _Cate_ … Talina could barely grit the woman's name out … was alone.

Alone in an hotel.

Turning to locate the Doctor, Talina saw he was heading down towards the _kanal_, taking pictures of everything like a ridiculous tourist. By the way he was looking around, he'd be gone for at least twenty minutes or so, possibly longer, but she would work on having the twenty minutes. She headed into the _Hotel de France_.

Twenty minutes should be enough.

At the Reception desk, she smiled lavishly at the well-groomed young man whose eyes widened a little. He swallowed hard.

"Two of my friends have checked in today," she said. "I wonder if you could ring their suite and let them know I'm here, please?"

"Certainly, _Madam_, and the names of your friends?"

"Professor Cate Holmes and Doctor John Watson," Talina maintained the smile although it took a little effort.

The Receptionist tapped a few keys on his computer, smiling and nodding as he located the names. "Your friends arrived earlier today and are in one of the suites on the seventh-floor," he smiled accommodatingly. "I'll call them now."

Once more tapping a few keys, the young man lifted a phone to his ear, waiting for the anticipated response. It was not forthcoming.

"It appears the phone in their suite has been unplugged," he looked apologetic, but it was not a surprise. Most hotel guests carried their own phones now and preferred not to be disturbed by the house-phone, especially if they wanted to ensure some undisturbed sleep. "If you care to leave a message, I'll be happy to ensure your friends are advised of your visit as soon as I am able to do so."

"I've come a very _long_ way to see my friends," she murmured, pouting slightly. "Might I go to their suite and wait for them there?"

"Deepest apologies, Madam," the young receptionist looked genuinely regretful. "But hotel policy will not permit such a thing. I _am_ sorry."

"Ah well," Talina flicked her fingers in the air. "It is of no great matter, I shall undoubtedly see them this evening at the … did they book _Zum Schwarzen Kameel_ again?"

"There is a booking for a cab at seven, to _Steirereck at Stadtpark_, so I assume that is their dinner location."

"Of course; thank you." Talina smiled, waving over her shoulder as she slipped away, unseeing as the young man waved longingly back.

There was less than twenty minutes left. If she were going to act, it must be now or the opportunity would be lost. Walking around towards the nearest bank of lifts, Talina saw an unobtrusive service door. Slipping through, she found herself in the half-world of the real hotel; where real people toiled and sweated in order that people such as Mycroft and his wife could take their ease. Sliding silently through the maze of narrow passageway, passing both closed and open doors, past discussions of laundry and cleaning and cooking, she found what she wanted: a room filled with clean uniforms, just hanging, waiting to be claimed by their respective owners.

Stepping inside, she found a housemaid's dark-green uniform, as well as a fawn apron and headscarf. Slipping out of her street-clothes, Talina was into the maid's outfit in seconds.

_The boy had said their suite was on the seventh-floor, so that was where she needed to be._

Without a Master-key, it was going to be difficult to enter the woman's suite even after she'd found it, but Talina felt it still worth the attempt.

Taking a service-lift up to the seventh-level, Talina stepped out into the plush corridor, barely noticing the gilding and marvellous paintings on the walls, or the choice red marble of the floors. She knew she had to find a list of guests, and the best place to find one of those apart from the Receptionist's desk was … _ah_. She smiled. The discreet cleaning cart was parked in a corner of the passageway.

Seeing nobody around, Talina rummaged around in the top of the thing, looking for any kind of list; a schedule, _anything_. Her eyes lit upon a small notebook which she grabbed. Flicking through the pages, she saw they were each a print-out of a day's guest-list. Moving swiftly to the last page, Sarkis found, finally, what she wanted.

_Holmes and Watson._ Suite Three.

Looking underneath the notebook, Talina searched for a passkey of some description: these carts usually carried some kind of spare in case the cleaners locked their own keys inside the rooms they just been in., but she could find none. There was only one thing to do, in that case.

Checking her watch, Talina saw that she had ten minutes left at most.

Stepping away from the cleaning cart, she started listening, while looking for an open door. She heard the sounds of a room being cleaned at the same time she spotted the open door at the end of the passageway. Seeing a cardigan hanging over the back of a chair with the name-tag of _Heidi_, she smiled. Attached to the name-tag was a hotel smart card; exactly the kind you used to open your room. The tag was in her hand in a moment. So far, so good.

Retracing her steps, Talina was quickly outside the door to Suite Three. Somewhere inside this place, there was a woman who meant a very great deal to the man she now reviled. Her task was simple: to go in, find the woman and kill her. It was not so difficult. With any luck, she might even be able to make it look like an accident; she had done it before.

Sliding the key-card through the scanner, Talina waited for the soft click of the door as it unlocked. Pushing it open slowly, she peered around into the suite's vestibule … _empty_. Good. Stepping silently further into the apartment, Talina held her breath in order to hear the slightest sound, but there was none. Was Cate Holmes even here?

Turning to her left, Sarkis approached the first of the two bedrooms in this suite; the door wasn't closed, merely closed-to. Pushing it open with fingertips, Talina felt a small wave of victory. Mycroft's wife was asleep in the bed.

A pillow over the face should be sufficient.

Talina moved towards her prey, already reaching for one of the soft white cushions Cate had discarded onto the floor … this would be quickly over.

###

Leaning half-over the sun-warmed parapet of an ancient stone bridge, John was photographing the highly-painted barges floating beneath him, watching the black swans ignore everything manmade and mechanical. It was an idyllic scene and the doctor felt truly blessed to be living this life at this time.

His crazy new phone rang again. Since the only person who would know the number was Mycroft, then the identity of the caller was hardly a surprise.

"Hello, Mycroft," he smiled. "Cate's had a good lunch and is now taking a nap; she's absolutely fine."

"As are the swans of the _Donaukanal_, it would seem," the educated voice at the other end of the conversation sounded as if there were a smile in there somewhere.

_Wait_.

"How did you know I was looking at the swans just now, Mycroft?" John had a sinking feeling he already knew, but wanted confirmation.

"Come now, _Doctor_," this was Mycroft's man-to-man voice, the one that said they were both men of the world and therefore understood how things worked.

"How are you seeing what I've been photographing, Mycroft?" John was not about to let this slide. "This phone is bugged, isn't it?"

There was a fractional pause. "Not exactly _bugged_, John, more … shall we say, _slaved_?"

"_Slaved_? My phone is slaved?" To what is it slaved?" John's voice climbed the scale of disbelief. "Don't tell me this phone is slaved to your account?" he almost growled. "Don't tell me you've seen and heard everything I've recorded or said!"

"Very well, Doctor Watson," the smooth tones didn't miss a beat. "I shall not tell you those things."

"_Mycroft_!" John was outraged. "You go too far."

"Merely precautionary," the elder Holmes made his spying sound virtually routine. "You have in your care something of the very greatest importance to me; something that I will take every step to protect, do you understand?" his voice was calm, his words were not. "_Every_ step."

"You might have had the decency to tell me," the blonde man muttered.

"I'm telling you now, John," Mycroft sighed. "Frankly, I'm a little surprised at your surprise."

"If Cate finds out, she'll go spare, you know this."

"My wife would not be in the least bit troubled at such knowledge; she'd probably laugh."

"Yeah, you two are both as mad as hatters," John relaxed. He really should have known, he really should. "Let's hope her journalist friend doesn't find out or there'll be all sorts of difficult questions; Chinar does not strike me as the most restrained of people."

There was another pause.

"What is the full name of the journalist you said had become friendly with Cate?" There was an odd tightness in Mycroft's voice, though John couldn't imagine why.

"Chinar Parisyan," he said. "She boarded the same flight as us at Heathrow this morning, and…"

His words were interrupted by unprecedented alarm in the elder Holmes's voice.

"_John!"_ it was almost a shout; from Mycroft, a clarion-call to arms. "_Get back to Cate immediately, she's in terrible danger!"_


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

_Appalling Timing – A Dinner Appointment – A Call for Help – Das Traveller Rast – Two Hours and Fourteen Minutes – John Cannot Lie – Sherlock Has a Plan – Be Safe, Darling – The Steirereck Experience – The Weapon – No Time to Think._

#

#

As soon as he'd spoken with the doctor, even as his chest seized with an awful fear, Mycroft had already pressed the keys for Cate's speed-dial. He heard her Samsung ringing in his ear.

"Answer the phone, Cate," he muttered beneath his breath as the seconds ticked by. "Answer the bloody phone, please."

"_Mmmhello?_" his wife's mumbled greeting was the sweetest thing he could imagine.

"_Cate?_" he controlled a desire to shout. "Cate; are you _alright_?"

"Mycroft? Whatever's the matter?" her voice had quickened slightly upon hearing the urgent tone in his voice, but it was clear she wasn't yet properly awake.

"Where are you, darling? Where are you _right now_?"

"In bed in my room, having a nap," she yawned as she sat up, blinking to clear her eyes. "Why?"

"Is the door open?"

Cate could hear Mycroft was clearly troubled, even though he was trying to disguise it. Why on earth would he need to know if her bedroom door was opened or closed? Sometimes he was the strangest man.

"It's partly open, the way I usually leave it," she blinked, yawning again. "Why_?_ What _is_ going on?"

The wave of relief left him a little dizzy as he resumed breathing, barely aware that he'd stopped.

"Go and lock your door, please, my love," he tried to keep his words soft, his voice calm. "Lock your door until John gets there. Do it now, please. _Right now_."

Sighing in confusion, but trusting him to have a good reason, Cate left the bed, walked over to the door, closed it and turned the lock.

"My door is closed, and locked," she said. "I am in my bedroom, not quite awake, but wondering what the hell is going on and why you are so insistent."

"Thank you; this makes me feel better."

"But why were you concerned in the first place?" Cate was sitting back on the bed, still yawning. "What's going on, O Husband, _mine_?"

"You'll laugh if I tell you," his voice sounded suddenly normal, even relaxed.

"Tell me anyway," she said, her eyes still drooping sleepily.

"I had a foreboding that something bad was about to happen," Mycroft cast around for something only partially disquieting but sufficient for his alarm. The last thing he wanted was an anxious wife more than nine-hundred miles away. He knew Cate was not the flapping type, but then, she'd never been pregnant before and he was not about to alarm her if he could avoid it. "Clearly I am finding your absence difficult to tolerate and will likely be a frantic mass of panic until your return."

Cate smiled, shaking her head. Imagining her husband as a frantic mass of _anything_ was an impossible task. He was obviously teasing her.

"Can I continue my nap now?" she yawned again. "Your children are becoming Parkour _traceurs_ and are wearing me out. If I don't get some sleep, I shall be hopeless later."

He didn't want her to sleep until he knew John was there to ensure her safety, but he wasn't about to tell her that either: he had no desire to answer difficult questions until he had first resolved the problem. He had to keep her talking until John returned.

"_My_ children?" he smiled, quietly charmed by her complaint. "They're at least half yours."

"My half is perfectly quiet and well-behaved," she yawned again. "_Your_ half is going mental. You'll probably have to sort it out, at some point."

"I would suggest, _dearest_ wife, based upon past experience, that it is _your_ half which provides the disruptive influence. Mine is most likely looking for a good book."

"That's right," Cate laughed. "Blame the woman."

"I miss you," his voice dropped, intimately. "I wish you were here with me."

His tone unmistakable, Cate's breath caught.

"I'm only going to be away for three days, Mycroft," she said, her voice becoming husky of its own volition.

"Three days without you in my arms," he murmured. "Without the warmth of you next to me and the sound of your breathing in my sleep."

"You could be here in this very bed with me, inside three hours, you know," she smiled; two could play _that_ particular game. "A little drive to the airport, a little flight, a cab-ride. I could stay right here and wait for you if you'd like?" Rolling carefully onto her back on the big mattress, Cate stared up at the ceiling. "I could keep the bed nice and warm for you, _my love_ …" dropping her own words down to a suggestive whisper, she grinned as she heard the faintest of groans.

"_I can't_, darling," Mycroft was truly torn. Half of him desperately wanted to be with her, especially now, especially after John's chilling revelation; the other half knew he had to be at the security summit: uncompromising questions were to be asked and he was the only one neutral enough and with sufficient authority to force an answer. "If I had any real choice in the matter, I'd have been with you every minute, but the timing of your conference has been appalling."

"The timing of _my_ conference has been appalling?" Cate laughed. "I could say the same about _your_ security summit."

"If I were there right now, I'd see to it that we'd forget both events," his voice grew silky and provocative.

"And exactly how would you set about doing that?" her heart began a little dance as she closed her eyes, picturing him beside her.

"Are you laying in bed, my love?" his words as soft as rose petals.

Breathless, she nodded, forgetting. "Yes, I am," she whispered.

"Are you naked?" his tone an echo of original sin.

Cate had always considered the concept of intimacy-by-phone amusing at best, and hardly a serious pursuit for adults. The reality of it was rather more shockingly effective as she felt her entire body flush with heat imagining him next to her, felt the caress of his fingers stroking her flesh, the first, gentle touch of his lips as they grazed her mouth and her throat … the warmth of his hands as they smoothed their way around the curve of her breasts … the scent of his skin …_ Oh God_ …

"_Cate?!_ _Cate?_ Are you in there? _Cate!"_ The sudden thumping of her bedroom door jolted her wide awake. She sat up abruptly. "John?"

"Let me speak with Doctor Watson, please, my love," Mycroft's suddenly dry tones an unexpected and frustrating departure from his murmured love-talk of only seconds before.

Shaking her head to clear it more quickly, Cate sighed, feeling her face still flushed as she went to the door, unlocking it, smiling and handing the phone to John all in the same movement.

"He wants a word," she said, walking into the main lounge-area and helping herself to another bottle of mineral water. Smiling, she held the chill glass to her cheek.

If she were the suspicious type, she might think her husband had been trying to distract her.

###

Talina was cold with frustrated spite, shaking with the fury of it, as she leaned back against the wall in one of the hotel's stairwells.

Just as she had grasped the pillow between both hands, the mobile phone on the woman's bedside table had begun a relentless beeping as a call came through. Hesitant for no more than a few seconds, Talina realised it was already too late, as the sleeper stirred. Unwilling to engage in a forcible struggle with screams that might attract attention, she flung the cushion to the floor and was already through the bedroom door before Mycroft's wife had turned over to pick up her phone. Carefully drawing the door nearly-closed, Talina stilled her pounding heart. The twenty-minutes she had allocated had already passed, so the doctor might be returning any moment; there was no opportunity now for a second attempt. Cursing venomously beneath her breath, she opened the main door to the suite and slipped silently away.

Walking swiftly out through one of the hotel's service exits, she remembered the Receptionist saying there was a cab-booking for _Steirereck_ at seven tonight.

Very well. She would be waiting.

###

"Mycroft, Cate's fine, I promise," John's pulse had finally started to slow after his mad sprint up the _Schottenring_ and into the hotel as if all the devils of hell were after him. "It sounds like she's taking a shower; she said she was too wide awake to try going back to sleep, but she's absolutely fine and not even slightly upset," he paused and spoke more discreetly. "I take it you've decided against bringing her into the picture?"

As soon as Cate handed her Galaxy to John, Mycroft had made the direness of the situation extremely clear to the doctor. Without knowing every detail, John was now apprised of the fact that _Chinar_ was in fact _Talina_ and, considering the lengths to which she had already gone, was probably planning something alarmingly unpleasant.

"Given that Sarkis, or _Parisyan_, has clearly made a decision to stalk my wife, you need to ensure that woman comes nowhere near Cate at any time _whatsoever_, in the next three days."

"I can do that," the blonde man nodded. "But that's not going to resolve the problem, is it? She's still going to be out there somewhere, waiting for her chance. We can't afford to leave the situation open-ended like this."

"I have absolutely no intention of leaving _anything_, Doctor Watson," Mycroft's voice hardened. "I released Sarkis in the hope that she might decently disappear of her own accord, but as she has elected to take a belligerent stance, I have little recourse now but to respond accordingly."

"You don't know for sure that the woman is stalking Cate, though, do you?" John sought a rational alternative. "The whole thing might simply be a huge coincidence."

"_John_," Mycroft sighed heavily. "Sarkis is embittered and vindictive and, perhaps with some justification, feels I have deprived her of fifteen years of freedom. I arrange her release less than twenty-minutes before your flight to Vienna, yet she manages, in that time, to change her clothes, purchase a ticket, board and proceed to establish friendly relations with both you and my wife, and, upon landing, has spent time with Cate_ and nobody else_?"

Making a face, John shrugged. "When you put it that way, I see your point," he felt uncomfortable. "I appear to have fallen down on the job, in that case."

"Arrant nonsense, Doctor," the elder Holmes was dismissive. "Had I not released Sarkis in the first place, this entire state of affairs would not have eventuated. However," he added. "Now that we know the parameters of the situation, we must assure Cate's complete safety: I'll not risk her, John, not for a second."

"Then I need help, Mycroft," John frowned, looking out through the tall windows at the bright, sunny Viennese afternoon. "I can't be close to her every moment."

"If the circumstances merit it, John, you must do whatever you feel will guarantee my wife's safety, even if it means you have to drag her away from the conference, but in the meantime, I will get you help."

John's eyebrows went up as he tried to imagine himself dragging Cate anywhere she wasn't keen on going. "The Austrian police are going to ask all sorts of awkward questions, you realise," he said, biting his lower lip.

"Precisely why I'm not going to involve the _Bundespolizei_ other than as a last resort," Mycroft sounded quite definite.

"Then exactly what help are you planning on getting me?" the blonde man wondered if the elder Holmes' powerful reach extended even to this glorious city.

Mycroft's voice took on an unsettling resolve.

"I need someone, not only upon whose skills I can rely utterly, but who, like both you and I, would have little compunction in exercising extreme intolerance toward any threat to Cate," he said. "Therefore," he added. "I shall get you Sherlock."

###

They had changed trains at Brussels, boarding some far less salubrious rolling stock. By the shabby livery of their new transport, it had been around longer than they had.

"We should be in Vienna by late afternoon," Julia yawned, stretching tiredly in her seat. She was already feeling cramped from sitting so long. "We need to change there, but I have no clue what platform we need for the overnight train heading into Sophia, and we won't get _there_ until sometime tomorrow lunchtime."

"How long do we have between trains at Vienna?" Greg dug his thumbs into the top of her shoulders as she rotated her head on a stiff neck.

"Mmm … _nice_; don't stop," she muttered, allowing her head to hang down while Lestrade's long fingers discovered all manner of tender spots. Sighing with contentment as he worked a few of the kinks from her neck, Garret forgot all about answering as she leaned into him when his thumb found a particularly satisfying knot.

"How … long … do … we … have?" his massaging fingers punctuated the question while his mouth came close to her ear. Julia looked up slowly, her eyes unfocused, half-lidded with pleasure. There were mere inches between their bodies. Lestrade could feel the softness of her breath on the side of his face. There was a scent of something floral in her hair; the warmth of her skin radiated into his.

If he turned his head just a little more, he would kiss her, and so he simply sat, unmoving, as her semi-vacant gaze pulled back into focus.

For an eternal second, they floated in that place of uncertainty, until Garret took a sharp breath and lifted herself away from his hands.

"About two hours, if the timetables are correct," she leaned back, clearing her throat. "There are a heap of restaurants near the station, so I suggest we go and grab something half-decent to eat before we start the next leg of the journey."

"Great," Greg took a quiet breath. "I'm famished."

Arriving finally at the _Wien Hauptbahnhof_, they slipped off the train and out into the surrounding City. It was a beautiful place. Scanning Julia's street-map, they settled on a cosy little place called, appropriately, _Das Traveller Rast_. Their train wasn't due to leave for just over two hours, so they had plenty of time for a leisurely dinner before a gentle stroll back to the station.

Though it was already late afternoon, the early summer sky was still bright and light; the two foreigners sat at a small window-table, its top cheerful in red-and-white gingham. Waiting for their food, they amused themselves watching the people on the street, observing the social differences between Austrian and British behaviours.

"That guy's up to no good," Greg narrowed his eyes, staring across the street at a man loitering aimlessly at the corner.

"Drugs?" Julia frowned, focusing.

"Too indiscreet for a dealer," Lestrade shook his head. "Too open. More likely meeting up with someone to go off and do something extremely naughty."

Garret smiled dryly. _Once a copper, always a copper_. "Those kids look a bit too cheerful to my mind," she nodded at a couple of young men lurching down the street, screaming with laughter and leaning against the building walls to stay upright. "Bit early to be party-drunk; wonder if they've been smoking the local shrubbery?"

"She's looking a bit suss too," Greg nodded at a woman sitting on a park-bench just across the way. Her feet were tucked beneath her; arms wrapped around her knees. Even from here, they could see her face was as black as thunder.

"Such a pretty colour she's wearing," Julia had always liked that shade of deep rose-pink.

###

"I need your help," Mycroft sat in John's usual chair. "I believe Cate is in serious danger."

"_Again_?" Sherlock laced his fingers as he sat, facing his elder brother. "Really Mycroft, your wife is one of the most danger-prone individuals … was she always thus, or only since she married you?"

Ignoring Sherlock's mockery, the elder Holmes was terse. "One of my enemies may be trying to damage me by harming her and I am unable to leave the country at this time. Cate needs help and I can't give it to her; I want you to help her instead."

By the tone of voice and the taut lines on his face, it was manifest that Mycroft was deadly serious.

"Where is she now?" Sherlock steepled his fingertips.

"In Vienna, with John, _obviously_," Mycroft snapped, before taking a short breath. "I apologise," he said in a more temperate voice. "I am … anxious about her safety."

"John's a soldier and a doctor," Sherlock frowned. "If anyone can look after her, he can."

"I don't need you to look after Cate," Mycroft frowned. "I want you to track down the person threatening her."

"In Vienna?"

"In Vienna."

"And do … _what_, precisely, when I find them?" Sherlock looked closely at his sibling's face.

"I don't want you to do anything," Mycroft studied the handle of his umbrella. "Find this person and contact me. I will … take care of the details from that point."

Still staring at Mycroft above his steepled fingers, Sherlock blinked slowly.

"Very well," he said, holding out a hand, palm-up.

"Thank you, Brother," Mycroft leaned forward placing an envelope fat with Euros, and a black credit card in the outstretched hand.

Smiling at the VISA Black, Sherlock twitched his lips. "Do I command your Ultra clearance-card as well?" he asked, standing.

"If it would help you keep her safe …" Mycroft sighed and looked suddenly tired. "My car is waiting outside; we'll take you to the City airport where a small jet is waiting to take you direct to a private airstrip just outside of _Donaustadt_. A car will be waiting to take you to the _Hotel de France_. Cate and John are in Suite Three on the seventh floor. If all goes to plan," Mycroft flicked the catch of his silver Hunter. "You should be there in two hours and fourteen minutes."

"Then let's not tarry," Sherlock was already reaching for his coat. "I just need to pack; one moment, please." He stepped into the bathroom, almost instantly stepping back out, waving a toothbrush in the air, which he stuffed into a deep pocket. "Right," he said, brightly. "_Packed_. Let's go."

"You'll also need this," Mycroft handed his brother a black-and-white photograph of Talina Sarkis. Sherlock stared at the picture before turning to meet his brother's gaze.

"Is there anything else it might help me to know?" he asked, thoughtfully.

"Yes, there probably is," Mycroft sighed again. "Come, I'll give you the gory details on the way to the airport."

###

He was still watching her.

The shower had refreshed her enough that Cate was able to get onto her ultrabook and deal with her incoming email-traffic. It was always the same just before any major conference: messages flying backwards and forwards; people asking for lifts or calling out greetings to old friends; colleagues sending reminders for meetings; room locations changing and being changed back. All part of being an academic abroad.

She also visited the conference website to check if any changes to schedules or speech-times had been booked in since the previous night, but everything was as before.

Answering the incoming messages and sending out a few '_hellos'_ of her own, Cate was increasingly aware of John's gaze on the back of her head. It was becoming almost a physical sensation.

"Okay," she turned in her seat, fixing him with a steady look. "_Give_."

Caught unawares, John widened his eyes, blinking a little. "What?"

"You've been watching me, the door, your phone, the door and me, in that order," she clasped her fingers together over the back of the chair. "I realise I do not possess the observational skills of either my husband or his brother, but I have been a teacher for a very long time, and John, my antenna are twitching madly. _So_," she said, turning properly around to be more comfortable. "Tell me what's going on, please."

About to protest there was nothing of note, John realised from the expression in her eyes that he couldn't do it. He simply could not lie so baldly to her. It must be a teacher-thing. He sighed; Mycroft would not like this.

"The woman we met on the plane, the journalist woman, is not what she seems," he said, after a moment. "Apparently," he crossed his legs and got comfortable. "She's one of your husband's old problems." He could tell her that much, at least, he thought.

One of Mycroft's problems? A _woman_? The coincidence was too marked to be anything but improbable. It had to be the same woman he'd mentioned in his reluctant confession.

"Is _Parisyan_ her real name?" Cate asked, thoughtfully.

An uncomfortable feeling gripped John: now that he'd begun, he couldn't very well clam up completely. He had little option but to continue with the truth and hope she didn't press for more information than he was willingly prepared to offer.

"No," he said, slowly. "That's not her real name."

"John …" Cate lifted her eyebrows at his caginess. "You're being difficult."

He scowled and folded his arms. "Mycroft didn't want you to know any of this stuff in case you got upset," he made a face.

"Well I'm telling you, _Doctor Watson_, that I shall be immensely more upset if you _don't_ tell me," she said. "I may even fall into a swoon," she added, darkly.

"Didn't know women did that any more," he grinned.

"I might be forced to reboot the fashion," Cate linked her fingers again. "Now tell me the entire story, please, John, before faintness overcomes me."

"Mycroft will be unhappy."

"Then we won't tell him," Cate waited. "Whenever you're ready, Doctor," she said.

"More and more and more like Mycroft," John shook his head. "Okay," he took a breath. "On you own head be it …"

###

It was already growing dark by the time the car dropped Sherlock off in front of the Hotel. The flight has been smooth, uneventful and swift, with negligible custom issues at the Austrian end. The Viennese officials had been expecting him, and, once they ascertained he had no actual luggage, swept him through a side door and out into the main concourse with barely a lifted eyebrow. It was useful, Sherlock thought, to have friends in low places.

Striding up to the main Hotel Reception, he made himself known to the young man who had been on duty all afternoon.

"I have friends in Suite Three on the seventh floor," Sherlock said. "I'd like you to ring them for me and let them know I'm on my way up, but tell me first," he paused. "Has anyone else asked after my friends today?"

The Receptionist remembered a wonderful pair of deep grey eyes. "Oh, yes," he nodded, smiling. "There was a woman, earlier this afternoon, but she left after the phone went unanswered. Said she would meet up with them at dinner."

_She_. Had to have been Sarkis.

"What did this woman do when she realised there was nobody in the suite?"

"The young man thought back, remembering. "She asked if they were going to _Zum_ _Schwarzen Kameel_ for dinner, and I advised the lady that there was a cab booked for seven to _Steirereck_."

Sherlock smiled. Cate had good taste in restaurants. However, the overly-helpful Receptionist had now turned both she and John into targets … _leichte beute_, as the locals might have it.

The _rezeptionistin_ replaced the desk-phone. "Your friends have been informed you are on your way up to see them, Sir," he smiled, nodding helpfully.

John opened the door at his first knock. There was a closed door to the left of the hallway. At Sherlock's questioning look, the doctor nodded.

"Cate's room," he said quietly. "She's getting ready for dinner. Apparently, we're going to some post restaurant in a park, somewhere nearby."

"_Steirereck im Stadtpark_," Sherlock nodded. "One of Vienna's best," he said. "You shouldn't miss it. Did you tell Cate I was coming over?"

"No," John shook his head definitively. "I'm trying to give away as little as I possibly can, although Cate has a way of extracting details without even trying."

Giving his friend a pitying look, Sherlock headed into the tiny bar-kitchen of the suite; specifically, to the Krups coffee machine where he set about producing a steaming egg-cup of creamy espresso. He perched on the arm of a sofa and inhaled the perfume of fresh coffee.

Cate joined them. "Thought I heard your dulcet tones, Sherlock," she said, absently brushing his cheek with her lips as she fastened a necklace around her throat. "Mycroft has sent in the cavalry, hmm? Seems he's taking this woman seriously."

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock gave his flatmate a critical look. John shrugged slightly.

"Told you," he muttered. "She has a way of getting information," he didn't sound particularly worried by the admission.

"Your husband is concerned you might become overly alarmed and do yourself a mischief," Sherlock assessed Cate's expression and then her expanded form. "The idea that you might be distressed is anathema to him."

Smoothing down the black evening-dress over her enlarged abdomen, she grinned. "And what do you think?" she asked, gazing calmly at the tall, dark-haired man. "Am I the type to fly into a tizzy because there might be trouble?"

"You've pregnant," Sherlock stood, staring down at her. "I'm told pregnancy does things to the emotions."

Looking across at John, Cate laughed. "Pregnancy may well do things to the emotions, but it doesn't fundamentally change the woman who has them," she patted his arm lightly. "Besides, it doesn't matter how pregnant I am," she added. "I can still take care of myself, more or less." Turning to John, Cate smiled. "I hope you're planning on wearing the blue suit," she said. "I feel the need to be on the arm of a handsome, well-dressed man tonight."

Unable to resist a small smile of his own, John stood. "I can take a hint," he said. "Won't be a tick."

"You realise she may well be waiting for you at the restaurant?" Sherlock helped Cate sit back into a chair.

"And if she is, there is nothing we can do about it until and unless she decides to cause a problem in some way," Cate looked up at her brother-in-law. "Would you like to join John and I?" she said. "I can ask the restaurant to add another place to our table."

"Thank you, no," Sherlock shook his head. "I had breakfast before John left this morning, and I've done nothing yet to require further sustenance," he added. "Although I will be accompanying you to _Steirereck_," he said. "But not to eat."

John appeared, newly clad in his fine plumage.

"Why John," Sherlock looked impressed. "Finally you seem to be taking my tips on clothes," the younger Holmes assessed the Armani cut. "You're extremely well-dressed for a bodyguard."

"Piss off, Sherlock," John smiled mildly as he completed the knot of a silver-grey tie. "I am the lucky escort of a beautiful woman to a very posh restaurant, so you can get quietly stuffed," he added, happily. "Shall we go?" he said, picking up Cate's jacket.

"So, what's the plan?" standing with some effort from the soft chair, Cate slipped into the light coat. She was too large now to fasten it closed, but the evening was relatively warm. "What do you want me to do?"

"You, Professor Holmes, are going to go to one of the finest restaurants in Western Europe," Sherlock flicked her collar up. "Where you will order and enjoy a gastronomic delight, and entertain your exceedingly well-dressed companion with an endless supply of witty anecdotes, whimsical narratives and amusing gossip."

"And?" Cate prompted. "What else?"

"You are to do exactly that _and nothing else_," his tone hardened slightly. "Anything else may alert Sarkis that we're waiting for her to show her hand," he paused. "Whatever else she may be, Talina Sarkis is not stupid, and I don't want anything to frighten her away before our trap is sprung."

"So where are you going to be while we're enjoying this gastronomic delight?" John opened the door into the hallway.

"I shall be close by but unseen," Sherlock looked thoughtful. "If Sarkis looks as if she's about to approach either of you, I shall deal with her. If I spot her before she sees you, I shall deal with her without your involvement."

"Fair enough," John offered Cate his arm. "Shall we go, Milady?"

Sherlock's plan was a reasonable one, but John was a doctor first and a soldier second. It wasn't only Sarkis they needed to watch for. Regardless of what she said, Cate was still in need of protection, and not only the emotional sort. He'd have to keep an eye on her physical condition as well; Mycroft was right not to want her distressed.

###

He had already worked his way through a large scotch.

Though the Security Summit was not due to begin its formal discussions until the following morning, Mycroft was even now being drawn into cloistered negotiations that always preceded such events. He had politely refused a tentative alliance with the French DPSD on the grounds that they were sufficiently large and intimidating to require no alliance whatsoever. And besides; they were French: on principle alone he would never agree to such an opportunistic Gallic seduction, no matter how attractively presented. However, a similar foray from the Belgian _Sûreté de l'État_ had him thinking of alternative liaisons. It would be quite ethical to climb into bed with the Belgians, as long as there was a pre-nuptial agreement _in situ_.

His Blackberry rang again. _Anthea_.

"It's the Russian contingent, Sir," her words were clipped. "They've got wind of a Southern European wedding and want to know how you stand on a Permanent Structured Defence Policy to replace the Lisbon Treaty. I think they're wondering on which side of the church they'll be expected to sit."

"Good grief," Mycroft seriously contemplated a second scotch. "Invite Gyorgi for coffee in the Derwent Room tomorrow at eleven," he said. "Advise him that all newly-weds appreciate a little house-warming gift, and Mother Russia is noted for her perspicacious cooking."

Ending the call, Mycroft walked to the window of his study, staring out at one of his wife's early-blooming Gardenias.

_Be safe_, _Darling._

###

They had been shown to a fabulous table on the upper balcony overlooking the river. The entire exterior of the restaurant was lit with brilliant fairy-lights, while cunning uplighting illuminated various trees around the building and large lanterns stood sentry along the riverbank. A stunning piece of _Art Nouveau_, the restaurant was not only a rightful Viennese landmark, but Grand Chef Heinz Reitbauer was properly famous for his magnificent creations. The place was packed.

Settling into one of the dark-red upholstered armchairs, a waiter returned with an additional cushion for her back.

Looking around, John knew they couldn't have been so lucky as to score a last-minute cancellation. Not in a place like this "When did you book?" he asked.

Sipping from a frosty glass of iced-water, Cate gazed around, enjoying the _ambiance_, picking up on the slightly festive mood that always seemed to inhabit this, one of her most favourite eateries. "About six weeks ago," she said. "Just as well it wasn't Christmas."

"How much advance booking do they require for Christmas?" John raised his eyebrows.

"The previous Christmas," Cate nodded at his surprise. "It's a very popular place."

"Hang on," John had made a basic calculation. "How come you booked this place six weeks ago? Mycroft hadn't even asked me to accompany you until the beginning of last week."

Cate laughed. "I knew I'd want to dine here at least once," she smiled. "And I was already fairly sure Mycroft wouldn't want me to come to Vienna by myself, so I made the booking. Either he would have come with me or Nora," she clinked her glass to his newly-arrived _aperitif_.

"If, by some miracle, I'd made it here alone, then I could always amend the booking or find myself a handsome gigolo for the evening."

John assessed the level of her seriousness, deciding that she was joking. She saw the expression on his face alter as he processed her last statement.

"What happens at conference, stays at conference,' she said, arching an eyebrow and smiling into her glass.

"You're kidding, right?" he had to ask. Not that it was any of his business. "You wouldn't seriously consider … a male companion for the night?"

"Why not, John?" Cate sat back against the supportive cushion, linking her fingers across her well-developed belly. "Because I'm a woman and women don't do that sort of thing? Or because I'm six-months pregnant, and pregnant women don't do that?"

"Because your husband is _Mycroft Holmes_, is why," John sipped his wine and shook his head. "And besides," he added. "I've never seen two people so completely dotty about each other, even though I still find it hard to comprehend how _anyone_ might be in love with Sherlock's brother."

The waiter stood silently by, doing his job. Laughing, Cate handed back the menu as they made their order.

"As if I'd look at anyone after Mycroft," she snorted. "Had you going for a second, though."

"Still don't understand how you and he ended up together," the blonde man squinted across the table.

"It was just one of those things, John," she smiled down at the linen napkin in her fingers. "And now I can't imagine it being any other way. I'm quite mad about him, you know."

John grinned. "_Yeah_," he said. "Somehow, I think everybody's got that."

"Although," Cate frowned. "There are times when I ask why he settled for me when he could have someone like Talina Sarkis," she toyed with her wedding ring. "Someone exotic and gorgeous and vital. Compared to her, I'm fairly pedestrian."

Putting his glass down with a distinct thud, it was John's turn to frown. "You don't actually believe that," he said. "_Pedestrian_?"

"Ordinary, conventional," Cate waved her fingers in the air. "Everything that a woman like Talina Sarkis isn't."

"Think you might have answered your own question, there," he smiled now, finishing his wine. It was truly excellent.

With a rueful smile, Cate wrinkled her nose. "Wish you were really my brother,' she grinned, teasingly. "I could tell you all the juicy secrets of my married life."

"Thank you, and _no_," John was quite adamant as he accepted another glass of wine from the waiter. "I do not wish to have even the slightest notion of _any_ of Mycroft's secrets, juicy or otherwise."

"Such a _coward_," she laughed, delighted.

"Such a _realist_," he grinned back, also laughing.

"Ah, damn," Cate caught her breath and looked irritated. "The biggest problem with pregnancy is that you have to keep going to the bathroom," she nodded over his shoulder. "There's a Ladies just through there, I'll be back before the _Entrees_ arrive."

"Helping her stand, John watched as she walked the handful of meters from their table to the inside of the restaurant and through a subtly-signposted door.

The waiter returned with a basket of unusual breads and a top-up of iced water for Cate. John stared out over the river, admiring the lanterns and the surrounding parkland.

"Where's Cate?" the voice was familiar and over his head.

Looking upwards, John focused on the face above the waiter's uniform. _Sherlock_.

"Neat disguise," John returned his sight to the scenery as his flatmate poured glasses of cold water. "She's gone to the loo," he murmured. "The door's just inside."

"How long has she been gone?"

John glanced down at his watch. Cate had left several minutes ago.

"It's been a while," he said, his heart-rate kicking up at the same moment his brain connected that fact to another idea. _Oh, Jesus_. He stared suddenly into a pair of narrowing blue eyes.

"Stay here, John. _Watch the door_."

Turning in his seat, the doctor watched at Sherlock walked calmly into the ladies toilets in one of the most famous restaurants in the world.

###

Talina had caught a tram from outside the _Hotel de France_, staying on it until she was well away. Leaving the carriage, she stepped down into a large open space adjacent to what seemed to be a railway station.

Finding an empty bench, she sat hard against one side, her knees tucked beneath her arms as she forced herself to think calmly. _She had been so close_.

Taking a sharp, deep breath, she rationalised the situation.

Mycroft's wife and the Doctor were due at _Steirereck_ tonight around seven. It was a big building and there had to be any number of hiding-places she could use. There was no time to get a gun, nor did she want to attract unnecessary attention by using anything so noisy.

There was no time to get anything poisonous from an apothecary, nor did she have anything even mildly toxic among her own possessions.

She needed a weapon that was easy to get hold of, easy to carry and easy to use.

She was going to a large restaurant.

Restaurants had _knives_.

Sarkis smiled.

###

As it was still relatively early, the women's lavatory was as yet unpopulated. Closing the door behind him, Sherlock located the small wooden block found in every bathroom in every restaurant in the world; the one the cleaners used to wedge the door open. Using this one to keep the door securely _closed_, he walked through the small but beautifully decorated waiting room with its bright red sofas and small glass tables with _petite_ vases of flowers.

Beyond this area were the actual lavatories themselves and as soon as he stepped into the tiled space, Sherlock knew there was trouble.

Cate was standing, pressed back against a long row of hand basins, her eyes focused intently on the opposite wall, on one of the cubicles. Another woman had clearly just emerged from the stall and had been talking to Cate who was standing utterly still.

The reason for his sister-in-law's complete lack of movement was the frighteningly long blade held casually in the woman's right hand. At Sherlock's incursion, Sarkis stepped swiftly to Cate's side, the knife aimed squarely at her belly. By the expression on Cate's face, there were only seconds before a move was made, a move that might result in the most unthinkable of consequences.

There was barely time to think, but it was what he did best.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

_A Dangerous Meeting – Things My Father Taught Me – The Hunt Is On – A Train At Night – Only Darkness – Aylesbury Begins – VIENNA – Establishing Détente – Obvious._

#

#

She had been waiting, concealed, just inside the busy entrance-hall when their cab drew to a halt outside the restaurant doors; the blonde doctor assisting Mycroft's wife up the few broad steps into the building proper. Sarkis watched as a white-gloved waiter escorted them up the wide staircase to the Upper Balcony. She followed, cautiously.

The British couple were seated at a table overlooking the river and had immediately begun looking around, engaging in an animated conversation which brought them both smiles and laughter. Talina felt the loathing of her enemy's wife deepen with every breath. It was not fair; it was not tolerable. It was not to be borne.

Keeping to the slightly shadowed inner edge of the staircase, Sarkis hugged the wall and made her way around to the women's toilets, a discreet doorway just inside the balcony itself and easily visible from their table. Entering, she knew it would just be a matter of time before the object of her hatred made use of these, the closest facilities; and so, she would wait. Talina smiled unpleasantly, looking down at the cold steel blade in her hand. She'd had a lot of practice at waiting.

Surprisingly sooner than expected, but then, the woman was very pregnant, so perhaps not _so_ surprising, Cate Holmes was alone, washing her hands at one of the basins. All Talina had to do was to step out of the cubicle.

"Has he told you about me yet?" she asked, leaning back against the frame of the door, watching the face of her adversary in the mirror.

Startled, Cate jumped, turning to look at the speaker over her shoulder. _Ah_. Taking a slow breath, she picked up one of the small hand-towels, drying her fingers. "It's _Talina_, isn't it?" she asked, slowly turning back to look at their joint reflections. Sarkis was no longer wearing the bright pink, but had poured herself into something altogether less reputable: slashed black denim jeans and skin-tight black-and-red leather jacket: model-glamorous and effortlessly sensual. Even now, Cate experienced a slight wave of admiration. No wonder Mycroft had been attracted.

"So, he _did_ tell you," Sarkis pushed herself lazily upright. "I'm impressed. Didn't think even the illustrious Mycroft Holmes would have the balls to tell his wife about the real love of his life," she said. "And did he also tell you what he has done to me?"

Cate knew immediately to be careful. The look in the woman's eyes, her tone of voice, even the way she held herself so very still; all signs of massive inner tension. Cate had occasionally seen students in states like this: it had rarely ended well.

"My husband was troubled by your meeting yesterday," she turned fully to face Talina. "You made him realise it was time to let everything go."

"And so he did," Sarkis lifted the knife a little, letting it glint in the overhead lights. "And so shall I," she leaned back, assessing Cate from head to feet. "Tell me first," she said. "What he saw in you that made him want a marriage," she curled her lip. "I see nothing much of anything."

At the sight of the knife, Cate's pulse hiked. This was a frighteningly unpredictable situation. She met Talina's gaze. "I can't help you there," she said, steadily. "I still don't know myself why he wanted it; God knows I didn't. Not at first."

"You refused him?" Talina sounded doubtful. "You told him _no_?"

"I told him no," Cate shrugged. "I didn't want marriage."

"You told him no," Sarkis pursed her mouth, thinking. Perhaps that was what it took to finally trap him: to let him pursue and capture. To let _him_ be the hunter. Talina had always taken that role in her sexual exploits, but perhaps, if she really wanted Mycroft back in her life … perhaps she might try it differently this time. She would run and let _him_ do the chasing. But first, this one had to go. She waved the knife deliberately.

Cate's heartbeat began to climb again. It was clear that Talina was fixated and obsessed; that no amount of discussion was going to change anything. Dropping the towel in the sink, Cate rubbed the fingertips of one hand together while the other moved unconsciously to rest protectively on her belly. John would notice her extended absence soon, but it was evident that Sarkis was in an unstable frame of mind, in which case, the knife would have to be dealt with … there would only be one chance.

The outside door to the bathroom opened and closed. Footsteps came closer, a shadow entered, preceding the form of … Sherlock. He saw the frighteningly long blade held casually in the woman's right hand as she stepped swiftly to Cate's side, the knife now menacingly pointed.

Vastly relieved by his unexpected presence, yet not knowing if he was going to be able to do much should Sarkis decide to lunge, Cate, despite her awkward shape, found herself rising up onto her toes, fingers closing around a container of hand-soap on the sink behind her.

Observing the fractional movement, Sherlock looked directly into Cate's eyes, the situation instantly visible. He knew precisely what she was planning; could predict her moves down to almost the last breath. Her plan had a reasonable chance of success, but it also held a clear percentage of risk. And it wasn't simply her life in the balance: he recalled the hunted look in Mycroft's eyes when speaking of Cate's endangerment in Vienna; he had seen Cate's hand, fingers-spread, across her stomach. Attacking the Sarkis woman was a chance he couldn't permit her to take.

"Unwise," he said, quietly.

Talina, who had automatically turned to face him when he spoke, turned back to Cate, the knife rising mechanically in her hand. Cate froze. Exactly what was Sherlock up to?

"Ms Sarkis, _stop_, or you will not leave this place alive," he announced, loudly. "Drop the knife and you may walk free. Do it _now_, and _go_," he added, stepping sideways, lifting a hand towards to door. "_Leave_. I have no interest in your demise."

Sarkis threw back her head, laughing.

"And who are _you_ to concern yourself with _this_?" she waved the knife in Cate's direction. "Not a waiter, that's clear," she added, inspecting Sherlock's uniform. "You know who I am, and you know who _she_ is, even her first name, and she clearly knows you too … therefore you probably know her husband … am I correct?"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes," he said. "Mycroft is my brother," Sherlock was watching her every move; waiting for the slightest indication that she was about to attack. He twisted his body slightly to his left, pulling her attention more towards him.

"My brother does not seek your downfall either," he said, pausing. "_Yet_," an element of inevitability in the last word. "He simply wants you to vanish, to go and live your life in any way you desire, as long as you no longer harass him or those associated with him."

"The _Great_ Mycroft Holmes wants _this_ and he wants _that_," Sarkis mocked. "He has no thought for the wants of others," she sneered. "I intend to change that."

"Why do you think Mycroft sent me here?" Sherlock asked, slowly. "Do you have the slightest comprehension of the danger in which you now stand?"

"I have this," Sarkis lifted the knife, point-up in his direction.

_Good: now the blade pointed at him and not at Cate._

"And I have these," Sherlock lifted his hands towards her, empty and palm-up. With a startlingly rapid movement, his hands were suddenly no longer empty. One held a thick roll of high-denomination Euros, the other an understated black plastic card.

It was clear by the widening of her eyes and her sharp intake of breath that Sarkis understood the nature of the card.

Sherlock's fingers blurred once again, leaving one hand empty as before, while the other now contained a compact, but illegal-looking blade that lay, almost innocently, across the curve of his fingers.

They blurred once more, and the cash and card returned.

"Which is it to be, Ms Sarkis?" Sherlock stepped fractionally closer. "Take the money and live, or hazard your knife-skills are better than mine?"

Talina felt the heat of frustration wash over her once more. She had let the man talk too long and now it was clear this younger Holmes was as lethal with his hands as the elder was with his mind. She was not going to be able to achieve her goal here and tonight. But there would still be opportunities; the woman was in Vienna for a three-day conference; she could not be protected the entire time.

Dropping the knife to the floor, she strode forward and snatched up the pile of Euros, flying out through the far door without once looking back.

About to make a throwaway joke about the entire incident, Cate found herself holding onto the sink behind her, shaking visibly as reaction and shock set in.

"I'll get John," Sherlock made to step away, but stopped as she held out a hand.

"I don't want to faint in front of John or he'll have Mycroft take me home," she whispered. "Just help me to a seat."

Wrapping an arm around her back, Sherlock realised how comparatively small she was beside him, how slight she would be beside his brother, and yet in human terms she was, right now, more important than either of them. He felt her tremble as he guided Cate to the nearest chair. About to seek the doctor again, her fingers fastened to his sleeve with vice-like strength. There was little he could do. Exhaling slowly, and entirely unsure what to do next, Sherlock slid both his arms around his sister-in-law's shoulders and held her close. He could feel the pounding of her heart against his chest as she calmed her breathing. It seemed to be enough.

The outer door was flung open "Keep everyone out please," he directed. "I'm a _doctor_," John's words obviously aimed at someone outside as he closed the door behind him. He walked straight to Cate, still ensconced in Sherlock's embrace.

"Talk to me," he said, reaching for her wrist, observing the tension on her washed-out face.

"I'm sorry John," Cate stuttered a little. "I'm actually feeling perfectly fine but I seem to have developed a case of the shakes."

"Is she hurt?" John looked into Sherlock's eyes.

"No, nothing physical," Sherlock adjusted his grip, sliding one arm more comfortably around her shoulders so that John had easier access.

Without his medical equipment, there was a distinct limit to his assessment, but Cate's pulse was settling, her breathing seemed to be approaching regularity, and her skin had already lost its unnatural pallor. It looked like everything was getting back to a kind of normality.

"How do you feel now?" he asked, taking her hand in his, feeling it dry and at the normal temperature. "Could you bear something to eat?"

Lifting her eyebrows, Cate smiled hesitantly. "Would it be wrong of me to be starving?" she asked. "I seem to be ravenous."

The Doctor smiled. "Better hungry than not," he said. "Come on; let's get back to our table before they give it to someone else." He turned to Sherlock. "You going to join us?"

"Not tonight," he said. "Going hunting."

"I didn't see which way she left the building," John said, handing Sherlock his key to the suite at the _Hotel de France_. "As soon as I saw her head downstairs, I came in. There's probably a bunch of people waiting outside now."

"I shall play the pregnant-lady card," Cate's fingers were finally relaxing their death-grip on Sherlock's sleeve. "Everyone will be too embarrassed to complain."

"I shall track the unpredictable Talina Sarkis and ensure she finds it impossible to repeat tonight's little drama," Sherlock frowned. "It might prove to be an interesting chase: she's an odd dichotomy of intelligence and idiocy."

"How so?" John helped Cate to her feet.

"Intelligent," Sherlock stood, one hand still beneath Cate's elbow. "Because though she clearly recognised the value of the credit-card, she made no attempt to take it with her since she also realised that its every use would track her location," Sherlock extracted a small plastic bag from his shirt pocket.

"And idiocy?" Cate turned to watch as he stooped to the ground.

"She left this behind," he said, wrapping the handle of the lethal-looking knife in the bag and the blade itself in a couple of the densely-woven hand-towels before shoving it carefully up his long sleeve.

###

Boarding their _wagon-lit_ at the designated time, Garret and Lestrade were escorted to a tiny compartment with a miniscule sink and mirror in one corner and two fold-down bunks arrayed on the opposite wall. The lower one served as a seat during the day, with a compartment below the seat containing the bed-linens and pillows. There was a diminutive table beneath the window, with a fold-down seat on either side. Stowing their cases on a netted shelf, the conductor, in very passable English, advised them that the toilets were at either end of the carriage, and that lights would be left on outside in the corridor for their convenience. There was a refreshment carriage in the middle of the train that would offer a light service all night.

Handing the man a tip, Greg thanked him, closed the door to the outside world and sat on the lower _banquette_, his hands on his knees.

"So," he grinned. "Who gets to be on top?"

Lifting an eyebrow, Julia gave him a withering look before glancing at the two bunks. "Sharing a cabin as we are, it might be easier for me to be up there," she nodded at the upper bed. "I'm probably a little more agile than you," she lifted the other brow, scrutinizing his body. "Don't want you to put your back out before the trip is over."

Lestrade stood. In the confined space, it was difficult for two adults to be upright without touching and it took effort. He looked down into Garret's open features and felt a growing temptation to stop making the effort.

"I'm not ready to sleep yet," he said, his eyes scanning hers. "In fact, I'm not remotely sleepy," he paused. "How about you?"

"Not sleepy either," Julia leaned back against the door behind her, a faint smile curling her mouth.

"Then what, _oh what_, should we do?" Greg heard whistles outside, as the train prepared to depart.

"I have the perfect idea," Garret focused her eyes on the tall man's face; his eyes, his mouth. She smiled, imperceptibly. "Something to occupy our time, give us something fun to do, and, _who knows_," she said, meeting his gaze. "We might even want to do it again."

The train lurched into movement and Lestrade was forced to catch himself against the door with an outstretched arm above her head. He felt her nearness. He liked it.

"Sounds tempting," he murmured, leaning into her space. "Exactly what did you have in mind?" He could smell the flowers in her hair again and he liked that too. Greg wondered how it would feel to run his fingers through those soft blonde waves.

"_Poker_," Julia produced a pack of cards from her shoulder-bag. "My father taught all of us three things," she added. "How to drink vodka and how to play poker were the first two."

"What's the third thing?" he grinned at the cards. He should have known she'd never make it that easy.

"How to stay out of trouble," she grinned too, a wide, genuine smile that crinkled her eyes and made her look like a teenager.

Lestrade felt his stomach shimmy again. He liked that most of all.

###

Leaving John and Cate to salvage what they could from their disconcertingly interrupted dinner, Sherlock changed rapidly back into his own clothes, threw on his long coat and stepped out into the cooling Austrian evening. It was still fairly light and he paused on the _fussweg_, looking left and right. With the shoes Sarkis had been wearing, she would keep to the asphalted paths and resist wandering off into the landscape. _Left_ or _right_, though?

To the left was the path leading towards _Steirereck's_ sister restaurant, the _Meierei_; groups of wandering tourists and locals. According to the map on his Blackberry, what lay beyond the park in that direction were some reasonably upmarket hotels. Turning to his right, the pathway led off into the unknown and growing darkness. She would have headed for the lights, possible looking for somewhere to stay for the night; which would be a relatively easy thing: she had plenty of cash at her disposal. Shame about the card. Sherlock headed left.

His long legs covering the distance quickly, he walked on through the darkening evening, senses alert for anything that might provide a lead.

The younger Holmes's logic carried him on along the even pathway, down past the brightly-lit kiosks and through the gathering of humanity that, even now, at this time of an evening, was still alive and buzzing with energy. It reminded him of Covent Garden after midnight.

Arriving at a fork in the pathway, he was faced with his first real choice. Which way would she have gone? Both paths moved towards bright lights and people; both were well-populated. Sherlock checked his map again. The path to the left took one to a single location; the edge of the park and a main road. The right-hand one went into a big hotel-district; he headed that way. Sarkis would probably be getting tired now; she'd be feeling the need for somewhere nice to crash; somewhere worthy of her new-found wealth and freedom. Nothing but the best, in that case. He stopped, looking up at the façade of the Ritz-Carlton.

_Yes: that would be just the thing_.

He stepped into the automatic revolving doors, heading towards main reception, turning swiftly to one side becoming suddenly and absolutely fascinated by a rack of tourist brochures.

Talina Sarkis was registering at the desk.

###

Other than stubbing his toe and nearly freezing to death on an icy trip to the bathroom at three in the morning, Lestrade had to admit that sleeping on an old train was a very relaxing way to travel. The slow, repetitive rocking of the bogeys; the dull clacking of the wheels over tracks far below them, the entire darkness of the journey.

Wrapping himself up in a thick blanket, he stood, staring out the window at the passing dark, with its vague skyline of trees and the occasional house light of an insomniac. He thought of getting himself a cup of tea and turned to see if Julia was awake in case she might want one too.

One of her arms hung limply over the edge of the bunk; the fingers curled in unconscious relaxation, rocking with the movement of the train: for a moment it felt as if he were being beckoned. Leaning close, he caught her hand, rubbing a thumb softly over her knuckles, before tucking it back up against her body.

A light wave of emotion washed over him and in the cold and the silence of the night, Greg wondered what exactly he was getting into.

Shaking his head, still clad in the blanket, he slipped out to the refreshment car.

###

"My wife," Sherlock strolled up to the reception-desk. "She just booked into a room a couple of minutes ago while I was still attempting to track down our lost luggage."

"_Sir_?" the cool-looking Chinese female smiled courteously. "Your wife?"

"Parisyan's the name. I assume since she booked in by herself, she'd have signed in using her own name, _Chinar_," he added, helpfully. "Did she use her credit-card or pay cash?" he asked conversationally. "She usually prefers cash, although I prefer these," he said, tapping the VISA Black down onto the counter.

The Receptionist's smile held a distinct new warmth at the sight of the card.

"Madam Parisyan has booked into one of our nicest rooms overlooking the Stadtpark, Sir," she said, employing her keyboard. "Room 402; take the second elevator over to your left, and it'll get you there the fastest."

Throwing the woman a wide smile of thanks, Sherlock strolled across to the indicated lift and waited for the doors to open. Pressing the backlit _Four_, he checked the time. Just after eight-thirty here, seven-thirty in London; too early for her to have gone to bed, too late for her to make another attempt tonight on Cate. Perfect time for him to nab her and get Mycroft to do whatever it was he needed to do.

Striding along the thickly-carpeted hall towards 402, Sherlock was already planning what to do next. He would have to stay with the woman until whomever Mycroft arranged to collect her showed up, and then the sky was the limit. He could stay in the room overnight and enjoy an interesting day walking around the City, or he could fly straight back to London tonight; be back in Baker Street before midnight. Bit of a whirlwind trip, but none the less bracing for that.

Knocking quietly on the door, "_Haushaltung_, Housekeeping," he said.

The door opened briskly and he pushed it wide, forcing his way inside before Sarkis had even realised who he was. Her eyes went blank with shock.

"Sit down, sit still and be quiet," he pointed to a chair over by the window, waiting until she sat, slowly, absorbing the situation.

Pulling out his phone he speed-dialled his brother. It was answered before the third ring.

"I have her. Room 402 of the Ritz-Carlton at Stadtpark in Vienna," he said without any precursors. "Instructions?"

"Stay there with her until my people arrive to take her off your hands, at which time our arrangement is concluded," his brother sounded pleased. "That was swiftly done, Sherlock. Thank you."

Debating whether to tell him about the foiled attack at the restaurant, Sherlock decided against it. Better Mycroft heard the details in person.

"How long?" he asked.

"No more than an hour, less if they may be contacted immediately," Mycroft was confident.

"Very well," Sherlock said. "I'll be waiting," ending the call, he found a well-padded armchair and sat.

Turning to stare coldly at the woman opposite. "Make yourself comfortable," he told her. "We have to wait for the others to arrive."

"Others?"

Opting for silence, Sherlock smiled briefly before linking his fingers across his chest.

"I need to use the bathroom," Sarkis muttered. "I was about to before you arrived."

Sighing shortly, Sherlock bowed to the inevitable. "Very well then," he stood. "Don't take all night."

Standing, Talina walked past him and into the small ensuite, closing and locking the door behind her. Sherlock looked through the main window; there was indeed a stunning view over the park. He could even see _Steirereck_ from here. With a small pair of binoculars, he could probably find Cate and John. He looked down and saw a small pair of binoculars. What would Sarkis be doing with binoculars, unless they were there courtesy of the hotel?

Finding it impossible to resist, Sherlock picked up the small lenses and focused them on the far restaurant. Sure enough, he was able to clearly make out the building, the upper balcony and … yes: there they were in the middle of what looked to be a fine dinner. If he was right, Cate had ordered the crayfish. He nodded. John would probably have gone for the duck in that case …

He had no idea what it was Sarkis hit him with, except that it was heavy, hard and entirely effective.

Slumping to the floor, Sherlock knew only darkness.

Talina smiled grimly. All men were fools, even the smart ones. _Especially_ the smart ones. Turning, she slipped into her jacket, grabbed her bag, ran to the elevators and hit _Lobby_. Approaching the female receptionist, Sarkis decided on a full-frontal attack.

"How dare you give my details to a complete stranger who has attacked me!" she shouted. "I have had to run away from him in fear of my life! I demand you send Security to my room and deal with the situation: he is a dangerous man who has threatened my life! I want the Police!"

Summoning two security guards, the Chinese woman did her best to relax the clearly traumatised guest.

"I assure you Madam," she said. "There is no need to summon the police at this stage. Allow us to deal with the situation and decisions can be made later with calmness."

Sherlock blinked several times, focussing on his watch, according to which it was now eight-forty-five. He couldn't have been unconscious for more than a few minutes and there might still be a chance to catch up with her. Rubbing the back of his head, he ran out through a still-open door, down to the lifts which were gratifyingly ready to respond.

Barrelling out into the marble foyer, Sherlock ran directly into the burly arms of two rather large and manifestly unimpressed men in matching dark suits.

"That's him!" Sarkis shrieked, stabbing with her fingers. "That's the man who attacked me!" she cried, backing away towards the exit.

"Stop her!" Sherlock demanded. "That woman has already assaulted one person this evening!" he struggled fruitlessly against his captors who dragged him down to the cold stone floor.

By the time he was able to twist his head around to look, Sarkis had disappeared through the revolving doors.

Swearing beneath his breath, Sherlock went limp, allowing the guards to drag him to his feet. "_Congratulations_!" he snapped angrily, shrugging them off. "Now _I _need to phone the police," he said, reaching for his phone and pressing two keys.

Of course, it was Mycroft who answered.

###

The drive to Aylesbury the following morning was, for all its brevity, entirely humdrum. Mycroft spent the time making small notations beside lines of printed transcript: quite literally, reports of _who_ said _what_ and _when_ and to _whom_. _Out of the mouths of babes and innocents_, he thought. This latest crop of negotiators had, apparently, a limited understanding as to how the game was really played. He sighed. There was little sport in throwing an unblooded rider; still, it was a learning experience for them, if nothing else, he smiled faintly. And if it meant his own designs would be ultimately successful, there was really very little about which he might complain. But still, he sighed again, his thoughts turning to Europe and, in particular, a certain gathering in Vienna.

Sherlock's second call of last evening had been an unwelcome one, especially given that he'd already had his agents alerted to collect the article. However, all was not lost, as Mycroft's two privately-commissioned _Revierinspektors_ had been able to secure Sherlock's release from hotel security and offer whatever unofficial support they might.

His brother, reluctantly, had also chosen to inform him of an earlier averted attack on Cate at _Steirereck_. He made it clear she was perfectly well, but Mycroft's blood chilled when he realised how terrifyingly close things might have been to the exact opposite.

An initial impulse was to demand John bring her home on the instant, but conceded Sherlock's argument that with John's close attention and now the additional search activity beyond that, it would be nigh impossible for Sarkis to breach the net. Additionally, Cate might never forgive him were he to attempt such a _coup d'état_. Her safety was assured; his brother was quite steadfast on this point.

Mycroft nodded to himself. He knew quite well of what Sherlock was capable when he was _steadfast_. And so, he agreed. Cate could remain and so would his brother.

Yet again, he felt a surge of need to be there, to be with her, but Aylesbury demanded otherwise.

_Be safe, my love_.

###

Sherlock had made a second call, two hours later than the one to Mycroft; this time to John.

"I tracked her to an hotel, but she cold-cocked me and managed to escape. I am therefore back on the hunt."

"She knocked you out? Are you okay?" John was of course, concerned. "Do you need me to look at your head?"

"My head is fine, _Doctor_," he muttered. "Although my brain might need examining. I was careless and she took advantage. She's an ingenious woman."

"Yeah, no need to tell me," John was in complete agreement. "She sucked both Cate and I in."

"Ordinary brains, John," Sherlock could almost hear the scowl arrive on his friend's face.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," the blonde man was less than impressed. "At least these ordinary brains didn't get whacked about tonight. What did she hit you with?"

"A steel toilet-roll holder."

"Are we going to tell Cate?"

"I think not, unless there's no choice," Sherlock relayed Mycroft's comments.

They decided to play things entirely as normal.

"What time are you on?" John was making pre-breakfast tea in the tiny kitchenette of their suite. After all the drama and upset of the previous night, the doctor in him was pleased that Cate appeared to be doing so well. They had returned to their table, Cate, as she'd suggested, playing the damsel-in-distress, or, John thought for a moment, whatever the equivalent was of a married and quite obviously _pregnant_ damsel. He smiled. If anyone knew the noun for a pregnant married damsel, it would be Cate. He made a mental note to ask her.

Given what must have been a pretty daunting experience, he thought she seemed fairly chipper during dinner, which had been, as she had promised it would be, entirely spectacular, ending, after almost three hours, with a trolley containing live tea-plants from which their waiter had clipped leaves and made a tea, right at the table. Had it not been for the earlier unpleasantness, the evening would have been one for the books. _Still was,_ really. John had never experienced the level of service and plain, unconditional luxury as he had at _Steirereck_. He hated to even begin to imagine what it must have cost, but if Cate wasn't worried, then he'd be damned if he was.

His charge was due to give her key speech today, just before lunch at one of the massive _Universität_ lecture halls, and therefore he felt it incumbent upon himself to ensure she was as well prepared for the event as possible.

There was a heated pool in the basement of the hotel, and he had paced her while Cate propelled herself up-and-down the lap-lanes for more than thirty minutes, working up an impressive appetite.

"My speech is due to start at eleven-thirty in the main auditorium," she said, finishing the last of the room-service scrambled-eggs and a large glass of fresh orange. "I need to be there a little earlier so I can organise my presentation," she added. "But that shouldn't take long; they've had my speech for three weeks now."

"I'd like to be in the front row, if that can be managed," he asked, leaning back against the counter, crunching a piece of deliciously toasted freshly-made bread, holding a tiny cup of black coffee close to his nose to make the most of the astonishing aroma: he'd have to take some of this stuff home with him.

"Really?" Cate turned, smiling. "I warn you now that it's probably going to be one of the most boring things you'll ever hear," she added. "You're absolutely _sure_ you want to submit yourself to a bunch of speeches that're entirely academic and more than generally political?"

"If I were your doctor and worried about your welfare, what do you think I'd do?"

"What would you do if you were my brother?"

John smiled. He knew this one. Harry had asked him on several occasions what a _real_ brother would do; but somehow, this wasn't the same.

"I guarantee I can weather the event," he smiled. "And, as your doctor, I need to be close in case of anything unexpected, and if I were your brother, I'd be there just for you, in case of anything unexpected."

"This is an academic conference, John," Cate laughed. "How unexpected are things going to get?"

"Don't argue with me, I'm a doctor," he smiled, finishing his coffee.

"As am_ I_," Cate grinned. "As is just about everyone in the audience."

"_Fine_," he said. "Still want to be in the front row."

The cab-ride to the forum was brief; the car depositing them in a throng of rapidly moving people, all heading, it seemed, for the same place.

Security was tight. Even though there were hundreds of people milling around, each wore a delegate's photo ID badge on a lariat around their neck. There were even different coloured badges; a mid-blue for general delegates, black for conference administrators, and a bright-yellow for general speakers. Those with red badges were key-speakers and the moderators of other discussions, especially those where debate might be expected to become a little _heated_.

Cate's bright scarlet badge flagged her as someone near the top of the pile, and it seemed she was as well-known personally as she was for her work and professional opinions. She wangled John a blue badge, after she signed off on his presence at the conference on medical grounds. As they walked through the crowds of people checking in and getting lost, getting found and wandering around in complete disregard of conference protocols, John wondered if all Cate's gigs were this enormous. There was a great sense of energy in the place; an almost festive feeling, as people from every part of the world came to this building today to discuss and argue the things that were most important to them in their work. Cate was in her element and found it virtually impossible to take the broad smile from her face.

"Ah, _Cate_, my dear," a large and heavily-bearded man with a distinctly American accent spotted her in the lobby and hailed her loudly. "We haven't seen each other since … _Kansas?_ Was it really that long ago?"

"_Thomas!"_ Cate exclaimed, heading into his arms and giving him a familiar hug in return, kissing his cheek. "Are you still quoting Marx and calling him Faulkner?

"Are you still quoting Clarke and calling him Eagleton?"

"You owe me a coffee," she demanded, laughing up into the tall American's bearded face.

"You owe me a book," he demanded. "You've been promising me a novel for more than ten years; about time you delivered, I think."

"John," Cate turned to smile at him. "Please meet Professor Thomas Lesser of the University of California in Riverside," she rested her hand on his lean arm. "Tom is an old friend of mine and is forever calling me out whenever I make any wild claims."

"Pleasure to meet you, Doctor Watson," Lesser grinned after Cate's introduction and explanation for John's presence. "I don't envy you your task under present circumstances," he added, waving a hand at Cate's expanded shape. "She was bad enough before, I guess she'd be a nightmare around about now?"

"Just making sure she doesn't do anything overly tiring," John shook the man's hand. "Otherwise, only here to listen to clever people talk."

"_Ha_," Lesser laughed shortly. "You got the right place for the talking; don't know so much about the clever." He turned back to Cate. "I see you're giving a keynote speech on alternative futures for the Arts," he nodded. "An important discussion and one that will attract a big audience, no doubt."

"Oh, I don't know," Cate grinned. "As soon as they see my name beside the title, everyone will probably run for the hills."

"Don't listen to her, Doctor," Thomas shook his head. "This is one smart woman you have here. The room will be packed."

John frowned. A packed room was not ideal in terms of keeping an eye on who was around. He wanted to be absolutely sure that Sarkis wouldn't be able to get anywhere near Cate, assuming, of course, it was still the woman's plan to do so. Still; there wasn't much he could do about it except be right there and keep his eyes peeled for anything resembling trouble.

The Professor was correct.

After the welcome speech, delivered by an Emeritus Professor from Japan, there were to be two ancillary keynote deliveries, of which Cate's was one. All the key speakers were currently sitting in an arc behind a simple lectern on the large stage. The massive main auditorium was indeed packed solid, with people standing against the walls. Looking around, John made a rough calculation that there must be nearly a thousand delegates and various hangers-on in here. He looked back at Cate: she seemed oblivious and not in the least stressed. If she was faking it, she was doing a bloody good job.

The theme of the conference was _The future_; what would people like to happen, what was happening already and what did they need to ensure never happened again. Cate was to speak on the latest global developments, the changing perception of the Arts both within the academy and beyond, and, perhaps most tellingly, her vision for taking Arts education to a new, higher level in Europe.

It was time. The Convener made the relevant introductions, dropped in a couple of light-hearted comments about the next speaker from London, and Cate was up.

Making her way beyond the lectern to the front of the large stage, Cate switched on the small clip-mike attached to her lapel and stood, hands clasped over her stomach.

"Can everyone hear me at the back?" she asked, waving. There were a number of returning waves. _Good_.

"Like many of you," she paused, scanning the multitude of faces before her while walking a few paces across to her left. "I've been a little busy with _other_ things," Cate smiled, and patted her extended abdomen, raising a ripple of laughter. "I keep forgetting where I am …where _is_ this place?" she asked, squinting around at the people sitting behind her. An inaudible voice supplied a single word. "Sorry," Cate swung back, facing towards the audience. "Didn't quite catch that. Where are we?"

A few wags in the first couple of rows shouted 'Vienna'.

"Still not hearing it," Cate shook her head, raising her voice. "_Where are we_?"

"_VIENNA!_" the entire room shouted it back at her, accompanied by laughter, whistles, and a buzz of comments.

"Hello, _Vienna_," she smiled widely and, stepping to the lectern, began to speak.

###

The Russians had been pacified, insofar as anyone from that glorious ethnic _mélange_ of passion and long memories might be deemed pacified. His discussion with Gyorgi Vitsin, had poured an agreed and ongoing number of kilolitres of eastern Siberian oil upon the troubled waters of the Mediterranean.

"_Oil!"_ Vitsin threw up his pale hands. "Always, it is the _oil_ they want," he shook his head unhappily. "They may as well demand our blood, they are like vampires, sucking us dry of all our natural juices!"

Unable to avoid a fractional smile, Mycroft stared down into his coffee. Gyorgi was a delightful chap, but prone to dramatics, much like his uncle, the famed and sadly-missed actor.

"I would rather see Siberian oil in the South than Russian blood," he said, sagely.

"Yes, you are right, of course," Vitsin added more sugar to the blackness of his cup, turning the coffee into a viscous syrup. "Will it be enough, do you think?"

"For now, certainly," Mycroft sighed, crossing his legs. "Much depends on internal vested interests and the new _genre_ of politics; it's all moving a little too far to the right for comfort."

"And we all know what happens then," Gyorgi nodded, sipping the sweet black liquid.

Mycroft looked curious.

"Hollywood will turn it into a movie and we will all be damned," he muttered, bleakly.

The British Government laughed.

Less than thirty-minutes later, having already exceeded his usual quotient of coffee, Mycroft opted for Earl Grey and turned his attentions to the Americans, who weren't officially there. He knew the tea would look stereotypical, but he'd be done sufficient damage to his blood-pressure for one day.

"So what can you tell us, officially or otherwise, about the treaty discussions?"

"My dear Ms Dunbar-Nelson," Mycroft offered the American an official biscuit which she naturally declined. "You know perfectly well I am unable to comment upon any _sub rosa_ discussion, assuming I were even privy to such information."

"Give me a break, Holmes," Sydney Dunbar-Nelson, US Special Economic Attaché to the Court of St. James, "You probably chaired the meeting."

He had, but that was simply a sensible guess on her part.

"And please call me Sydney," she added.

Mycroft had a soft-spot for the Americans at times: so eager for everyone to win, they sometimes forgot there was a dark side to every shiny coin, a sacrifice for every gain.

"Sydney, you are not really here except under the most tenuous of conditions," he shook his head. "This is a European dance and, unfortunately, while you may recognise the music, not one of them would openly acknowledge you as a potential partner in this forum, no matter how well you know the steps."

"That's crazy," the younger woman folded her elegant fingers in her lap. "It's because of China, isn't it?"

Mycroft looked at her sadly. "Perhaps you should be having this conversation with the Chinese, in that case?" he sipped his tea.

"China's GDP was down to seven-point-seven in the first quarter," the dark-eyed, dark skinned diplomat scowled. "You think they want anything to do with their major competition?"

"And this affects US National Security how?" Mycroft knew, of course, having also been involved in the recent Anglo-Sino immigration talks, but wondered if this woman held more than merely a superficial understanding of the game.

Dunbar-Nelson laughed, an honest, clear sound that turned heads. "Either you really don't know much about US politics, Mr Holmes, or you don't know much about American women. Which is it?"

"Please, _Mycroft_,' he smiled. "I know quite a lot about your politics," he sipped his tea again.

"Then it's the women who confuse you?" Sydney grinned. "You married, Mycroft?"

"I can confirm I am taken," he smiled, thinking what Cate would say to that comment. Something salacious, no doubt.

"And your wife, what does she do?"

"My wife is Professor of Literature at a London University," he said. "She confuses me all the time."

Sydney laughed again. "You're okay, Mycroft Holmes," she said. "So can you tell me anything officially about any of it?"

"I cannot tell you anything officially," Mycroft smiled slowly. "You are not officially here."

"Then what can you tell me _unofficially_?"

_Ah_. That was more like it. That sounded like something Cate would have said.

Vienna swam through his thoughts again.

_Be safe…_

###

He knew Cate's continued presence in Vienna would draw her like a moth to the flame. Given the woman's obvious mania, Sarkis would not willingly desist in her attempt to harm the wife of her greatest perceived enemy.

Had the situation been otherwise, Sherlock might have considered involving Cate in a sting initiative, but that was presently beyond the pale.

He considered. Sarkis knew where Cate and John were staying at the _Hotel de France_; knew Cate was going to be at the conference for another two days, knew also that she had the protection of himself and John Watson, as well as Mycroft's near-omniscient defence. Yet to catch her, he needed to bring her close.

How then, to bring her close? How to have her willingly enter the lion's den?

Sherlock smiled. _Obvious_.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

_Toward Yerevan – The Plot Begins to Thicken – Mein Schatz – The Arrival – The Trap – Back The Way They Came – Mightier Than the Sword – Onward to Gatwick – Kisses and Strudel – The Trail Goes Cold – A Stranger Assists – An Unexpected Event._

#

#

They had to get off the train at the Turkish border at Kapikule late at night to buy a visa and get their passports stamped, but apart from that, the trip through Serbia and Bulgaria had gone like a dream: a dream in which Greg was now in debt to D.I. Garret to the tune of twelve pounds. It would take them another full day to make it to the borders of Armenia and then to shunt into Yerevan, but the end of the outward leg was in sight.

Lestrade, ever the Copper, began thinking about the procedure of the pick-up.

"Do they know when we'll be coming?" he wondered.

"No," Garret shook her head. "My dad sent them a letter a couple of months ago telling them to be ready to leave, but no specific dates were mentioned."  
"Do they have access to a computer?" Greg asked. "We could email them."

Julia raised both her eyebrows and looked genuinely amused. "They don't even have _electricity_ up in the hills yet, I don't think," she laughed. "They still burn wood for cooking and use oil in their lamps at night."

"Phone of any description?"

Garret laughed again, still shaking her head at Greg's increasingly incredulous expression.

"Then how can we let them know we're coming?"

Julia shrugged, grinning. "I guess we'll simply have to turn up and see what happens."

Lestrade had another thought.

"Can they speak English?"

"I think Ayda has some English she picked up during the war," Julia paused. "The _second_ _World War_," she added, meaningfully. "Don't know about Tapni and Karun, but I doubt any of them are going to have much of anything except the local Armenian."

"Which," Greg checked her face, carefully. "You _can_ speak, yes?"

"Which I can speak _a little bit of_, yes," Julia wrinkled her nose in mild irritation. "Don't worry about it," she added. "I'm sure everything will be perfectly fine."

###

"Do you get groupies?" John wanted to know; he seemed quite sincere. They were heading off to a nearby café for some well-deserved coffee and strudel. Cate had insisted he try the strudel, intimating he would find it a worthy experience.

"_Groupies_?" Cate half-frowned, half-smiled. "What kind of groupies?"

"Like a rock-star gets," he said. "Do you have fans trailing you everywhere?"

That made her laugh. "_Academic_ groupies?" she asked, finally understanding. "Sometimes," she added. "There's even a special name for them."

"Oh?"

"Yes, John," she said, straight-faced. "We call them _Students_," Cate prodded him in the arm. "Twit."

"Seriously," he insisted. "That was some performance you just gave."

"It was fun," she smiled again. "Were you bored?"

"Not in the least," he thought back. "Can't say I understood all the terminology you used, but I got the gist of it and I liked the way you made your argument," he turned nonchalantly around, glancing behind them, checking. "You had that entire room silent," he added. "It was impressive."

They found a café with a series of small outdoor tables of green-painted ironwork and heavily-cushioned matching iron chairs.

"_Zwei Strudel und Kafee, bitte_," she smiled up at the waiter, who promptly nodded, disappearing back inside.

"And this is what you do for a living, is it?" John leaned forward. "You tell people what you think about things and then get them to want to run out and start doing them for themselves?"

Cate really laughed this time. "I don't know where you get these ideas from, Doctor Watson," she tipped her head towards him. "I'm a teacher and all teachers like to talk. It's an occupational hazard," she smiled brightly as their order arrived: two huge plates of steaming, flaky-pastried apple strudel, served with heavy cream and sprinkled with fresh-shaved cinnamon. Then there were the two micro-shots of the blackest of coffee, the aroma of which was already making her head swim.

"Not sure you should be eating this," he said casually, after taking a loaded forkful of the pastry.

"And why's that?" Cate sipped the coffee.

"Because I may need to eat both helpings," John closed his eyes and groaned softly, the delicate, sweet-spiced fruit and melting pasty dissolving in his mouth and leaving him in a state of culinary grace. "This is unbelievable."

"Knew you'd like it," she smiled, feelingly. "It's a Viennese speciality," she added. "Everything elsewhere are mere copies."

There were respectfully silent for several moments, relishing the delicacy.

"So what now?" he asked. "You've done the main thing you came to do, so what's next?"

"I'm down as Moderator for several of the larger panel-discussions, which means I get to play Umpire," she said. "But other than that, I'm here to listen and learn."

"Would you be willing to go home now?" John didn't meet her eyes.

"Why would I want to go home?" Cate wrinkled her forehead. "The conference has just begun."

"But you've done the most important thing you came here to do, you said."

"True," she nodded. "But that wasn't the only reason I came here. I'd rather stay," she added.

"Mycroft is very worried about you," John sipped his coffee.

"I know," Cate looked down. "But he also knows I can't live my life as his life; I have to do it the only way I know and that's what I'm doing."

"If anything looks really dangerous now, you know I'm going to ask him to take you home, don't you?" John toyed with his food. He was being honest, but it felt uncomfortable. "You do you trust me, don't you?"

"I know that, and of course I trust you," she looked at him calmly. "I hope you won't feel the need to make that call."

John's strange black phone chose to ring. "Excuse me," he lifted his eyebrows.

It was Sherlock. Sherlock with an odd request. Ending the call, the doctor frowned down at his plate.

"You brother-in-law wants to know if you can arrange a series of special, unofficial 'conversations'," he asked.

"What kind of conversations?" Cate was curious. "And how special?"

John enlightened her.

###

The day had gone relatively well. The right people had spoken, and, more importantly, the right people had listened. Initially debating whether to drive home and return early in the morning, Mycroft's unofficial conversations had continued well into the dark of the night. The heavy long-case clock at the foot of the main staircase had just rung two, making any return to London tonight both illogical and redundant. Besides, with Cate away, there was no reason for him to be anywhere specifically if she weren't around.

Closing and locking the door to his private rooms at the grand residence, he looked around, seeing his clothes had already been stored away, his night things by the bed, his toiletries in the bathroom. There was also a bottle of his favourite Ardbeg on a sideboard; with a covered plate of delicate savouries and sandwiches kept moist for him should he feel peckish.

Feeling neither hungry or thirsty, nor particularly sleepy, Mycroft removed his jacket and sat at the desk. Pulling his phone out of an inner pocket, he found himself looking at a set of files that had had been created since yesterday, though not by him.

_God_. Only since yesterday: it already felt that Cate had been away the better part of a week. Thumbing the files open, he wasted little time moving directly into a large folder of audio-visual data. It was identical the one John had recorded; in fact it _was_ John's. Mycroft was simply tapping into the doctor's files. It wasn't as if the doctor was unaware. Perhaps there might be something helpful, something he might be able to use in the new hunt for Talina Sarkis.

Opening the first file, Mycroft saw that it was the one he'd started to look at the previous day; where John had begun his peregrination around the City. There were the romantically-painted barges and longboats; the cafes and restaurants along the backs of the river and of course, the regal flotilla of black swans. Photogenic, but hardly productive.

Flicking a finger, he passed onto a small video-file. As soon as he opened it, a smile stretched his lips. The phone had been held in John's fingers as he sat at the side of an indoor swimming-pool, by the looks of it, the one at the _Hotel de France_. The doctor's steady grip had recorded several minutes of Cate as she powered slowly up and down the lap-lanes, practicing her speech aloud between strokes.

Then she swam to the edge of the pool, her rounded, yet still hydrodynamic shape taking no longer to move through the water than before. Her hair was slicked around her face; her skin was innocent of cosmetics and beaded with water. Grabbing onto the rounded tiles at water-level, Cate looked up into John's camera and smiled. It was a happy smile; relaxed, pleased. Mycroft felt his shoulders drop in unconscious empathy as an echo of his wife's expression reflected upon his own features.

"Say hello to your husband," John's voice was off-camera, and she smiled again.

"_Ich liebe dich, mein Schatz, Mycroft_," she grinned, blowing him a kiss and paddling around toward the steps. He felt his chest tighten. He had never missed a living soul as much as he regretted her absence from his side at that precise moment. The lack of her was nearly a physical tangibility; a discomfort of sense and emotion and almost palpable. Something inside him twisted a little and he breathed hard at the brief spasm in his lungs. Taking a slow inhale, Mycroft collected himself before moving onto the next large file, a comparatively significant chunk of data. Wondering what it could possibly be, his thumb flicked it to life and he sat back, a new smile appearing of its own accord as he realised John had chronicled the entirety of Cate's speech at the conference that morning: there was well over thirty-minutes of data – she must have had a long question-session afterwards.

Plugging the phone into the beside network module, he activated the big plasma television opposite the bed and poured himself a small scotch. Kicking off his shoes, he lay back against several piled-up pillows, the smile never once leaving his lips. Switching on the big screen, Mycroft relaxed back and, in the quiet of the night, watched his brilliant, magnificent, single-minded mate, as she wooed the most obdurate of academics into applause.

As he settled down later, he again heard her greeting, _Hello, Vienna_. When sleep overtook him, he was still smiling.

###

For less than one hundred _Euros_, they had hired a battered old minivan right next door to the main Heyrenik train-station, together with a pile of floppy used paper maps, a torch and a compass.

Greg had raised his eyebrows at the compass. "It's just in case," Julia shook her head. He hadn't liked to ask in case of _what_.

Heading out of the city, Garret took the first shift at driving, making good time in the fine sunshine and along the remarkable clear roads. The journey passed quickly and were well into the lower slopes of the South Caucasus by lunchtime

"We should be getting near Akhtala very soon," Garret muttered, her head deep in the folds of a map that seemed almost certainly older than the van.

"That map's pretty ancient," he sniffed. "How accurate is it going to be?"

Julia looked up, smiling. "Some things never change," she said. "Akhtala's one of them. The town has been the same for hundreds of years; it's not going to be different overnight and lose us."

Nor did it.

They found the town; they found the road, the hill leading from the road, the hillside, the exact slope and the narrow, muddy lane. There were two small stone cottages next to a partially walled-in field. There was an ancient bicycle with a battered old basket and there was a goat on a piece of string.

Garret pulled the van to a halt and waited.

Two tiny old women left one of the cottages and came to stand outside, watching; not doing anything but watch, their dark eyes alert and flickering with interest.

"Wish me luck," Julia sighed, stepping out of the van and smiling at the old women.

"_Hello, Aunties_," she tried in her best Armenian. Apparently it was good enough, as the two women lifted their arms up and squealed happily. At their high-pitched greetings, a third, even older woman emerged from the nearest building.

Lestrade stared. He'd never seen anyone as old as her; a diminutive, wizened little thing he could have carried like a child. Had to be Ayda. Stepping out of the van, he turned and smiled, taking the soft wrinkled hand that was held out to him.

They all went inside the nearest cottage.

###

"Something that will draw her out of the background and into the light, of course," Sherlock frowned slightly. It wasn't as if he were suggesting tying Cate to a stake in a clearing.

"Inviting Sarkis to come and attack her again?" John made a face. "The idea is to keep Cate away from any of that sort of thing, Sherlock," he said. "Not use her as live bait."

"Not _live_ bait, John," the younger Holmes shook his head. "Merely the _impression_ of bait."

"So, a put-on meeting, in the evening, with less security and completely outside any of the conference meeting protocols isn't going to feel even remotely suspicious to her?" John scoffed. "You said yourself, she's not stupid."

"Not stupid, no; but clearly obsessed," Sherlock sighed. "She won't be able to resist; she'll simply have to come and see if there might be any chance for her to strike.'

"You know how Mycroft is going to react to anything that might carry even the smallest hint of risk towards Cate, of course," John said. "The _smallest_ risk."

"Just as well there'll be no risk to her at all, in that case," Sherlock looked bright. "All she needs to do is show up; walk into the room through one door and walk out of the room through the other," he paused. "I doubt even my brother could take umbrage with that."

Cate, of course, wanted the scenario to be far more realistic.

"But why can't I actually stay and take part in a real conversation?" she asked. "The more realistic, the more likely Sarkis will hang around and then the more time you'll have to grab her."

"Cate, the woman is demented," John refused to even consider the idea. "If she actually saw you, she'd likely go berserk and come at you with an axe for all we know. _No_," he said, firmly. "It's not going to happen with you in the room."

"You're such an old fogy, John Watson," Cate made a face.

"Rather be an old fogy than a dead dog," he grinned. "Your husband has made his wishes very clear."

It was, after all, a very simple trap, and Cate had gone through her part with a good grace, allowing John to escort her to a meeting that had had notices splashed all over the campus since the previous day. _A Special Conversation_, they had said. _One Time Only_, they had said. _Limited Seating_.

He should have known, based on the response to her earlier speech, that trying to keep the numbers down was going to be impossible, but it had been worth a try. Sherlock had ensconced himself in the university's security centre and was watching every single camera with the tenacity of a hunting hawk. His sighs grew more irritated with each individual body and small groups of bodies that wandered along the designated corridor towards the advertised venue.

A slight movement at the corner of one camera caught his attention, but it was so small, he'd missed it. Sherlock stared.

There it was again, but this time, he'd caught it. He nodded: at last. Success. At least, _possible_ success, as he leaped from his perch, already calling John on his mobile.

"There's someone lurking in a storage-cupboard at the corner of the main corridor and the secondary walkthrough, right across from the bank of lifts, John,' he hissed sharply. "I don't know if it's Sarkis, but who else would feel any need to hide? I'm after them now. Make sure you stay with Cate."

"Already on our way out of the building," John kept his hand on Cate's elbow as he guided her carefully but without pause down to the waiting cab. Once inside, he had directed the driver to take them to their hotel.

It was all going to be up to Sherlock now.

###

"Everything but the goat," Lestrade shook his head. "I can't get the goat in the van," he added. "And if it makes a mess, we'll never get the deposit back." Attempting, with varying levels of hand-waving, head-shaking and broken-Armenian to convey the goat problem to Tapni and Karun, the lack of a shared language was becoming evident as the goat-dilemma escalated into near-open dispute.

Ayda solved the situation with admirable efficacy.

Watching the old lady stroll over with a carving knife as long as her forearm and with an edge rivalling that of an open razor, Greg's heart thudded as he wondered if, for one dreadful moment, the goat's days were suddenly and tragically foreshortened.

With a twist to her lips, Ayda calmly cut the rope binding the animal to the shed and tapped it smartly on the rump, laughing at her daughter's faces as the skinny beast skipped away.

"She goes to find another farm now," the old woman chuckled. "Just like us."

Eventually, everyone and all the belongings, mostly large, canvas-wrapped bundles, were secured within the van.

"Are they just going to leave their houses like that?" Greg was uncertain. "Isn't anyone coming to take them over or buy them or anything?"

"Since the troubles," Julia looked around. "There have been fewer and fewer people left to take anything over," she said. "Sad, but there we are. It's one of the reasons they wanted to leave in the first place."

"Everybody ready?" Greg dragged the old van into gear and nudged it in a careful circle until they were facing back the way they'd come in.

Now for the return trip.

###

It was the third day. The final meetings were in place and discussions had achieved that most delicate of plateaus where a single misplaced word or misconstrued meaning might put paid to everything that had gone before. Courtship was over, and now was the time for potential partners to declare themselves or make way for more enthusiastic suitors.

Mycroft had most of Western Europe beneath his right hand: whatever he signed now, the relevant Democratic Powers had, by tacit agreement, signed also. The Russians were also interested, but, very much like the British, demanded wooing until the point of no-return had been achieved. The moment was indeed tense and strained; no party desirous of surrendering their virtue before knowing reputations would be safe.

Looking remarkably calm about the entire _affaire_, Mycroft once again took tea in the Derwent Room, glancing through one of the dailies as if there were nothing else in the world that bothered him, and, in truth, he had found these days, that few things did. As long as one was fully cognisant of the regional weather, there was scant need to concern oneself over local turbulence engendered by the occasional dark cloud. And so he sat: a British Gentleman taking tea, examining a crossword puzzle. He checked his Hunter: it was heading towards lunch; people would be getting hungry. They would decide quickly, now.

There was a quiet rustle of suiting as Anthea claimed a seat beside him.

"It's done," she acknowledged. "They agreed."

"All of them?" Mycroft frowned slightly at the cryptic clue. _A Lesser metric with astronomical value_. _Four letters_. Nearly one o'clock. Time soon, to consider leaving.

"Not all; the Serbs are still playing hard-to-get,' she said.

"Can we persuade them with more oil?" he wondered. _Lesser metric?_ This being the middle of the day, the motorway would be clear. A swift passage.

"They say they want an increase in voting rights in the Assembly," her fingers tapped, scrolling down the little screen before her.

"Do they, by God?" Mycroft smiled. Such an optimistic people, the Serbs. "Not this time," he said … _four letters _… "Agree to the oil and they may submit their application at the next summit," he sipped his tea. _Astronomical_. Just over the hour to London, in fact. Plenty of time.

"They won't be happy about it,' she said, looking up.

"It will be good for them," Mycroft smiled. _Nine, of course_. The PM. would be pleased at the newfound European _camaraderie_.

"Very well, sir,' and she was gone.

Finishing his tea, he felt a small wave of anticipation. Now that Aylesbury was all but officially over and it was heading towards the end of the third day, there was another thing he could arrange. He pulled out his Blackberry.

"Hello John," he said, writing _NINE_ in seven-across. "Are you on the point of leaving?"

"It's the three o'clock flight into Gatwick," the doctor replied. "It's the only flight available from here that reaches there before six."

"Three, at Gatwick, will be quite acceptable," Mycroft smiled, accommodatingly. "Bring Cate home, please."

Calling for his car, Mycroft walked slowly out towards the side of the building, wanting to leave before anyone attempted to embroil him in further discussions. He had done what he had come to do and the _status quo_ remained emplaced, although with a sufficiently open doorway now to entertain the possibility of future, more flexible discussions. It might even be possible in the not-too-distant future to ask the Americans for a dance.

Stepping smartly into the Jaguar, Mycroft felt the tyres dig momentarily into the heavy gravel driveway and finally, the summit was behind him. Onward to Gatwick.

###

The conference had been a resounding success, and Cate was delighted. Not only had she achieved everything she'd set her heart upon doing for the last six months, but it had been done in style, despite the unexpected circumstances. John, even with his continual doubts and worries, had not succumbed to any form of nervous collapse, nor had he been required to rescue her from anything more menacing than a jammed stapler since that first night.

Settling back into the aircraft's lavish First-Class seats once more, John couldn't help but watch every last person who stepped through the hatch until the entrance was sealed and the Captain had put the seatbelt sign on. It wasn't until they were up in the air that the blonde man actually took a long, deep breath. It was over. He had done what had been asked of him. Onward to Gatwick.

###

He had arrived early, of course: the traffic on the way back to London was lighter at this time of day and in this direction. Equally, he could have returned to his office, but the idea of driving away from where she would soon be felt wrong. He spent the time reviewing the heads of agreement drawn up since he had left the summit. The initial response was already encouraging.

"Their plane's coming in, sir," one of his security detail tapped on the window. "Do you want to wait here, or …?"

"I'll meet them in the usual place," he nodded, slipping out of the car and walking away from the private parking area normally reserved for visiting royalty and that most rare of creatures: a media-shy celebrity. Mycroft was escorted through glass doors into what was clearly a waiting-room; where he stood, staring out of the tinted security windows, admiring the painted liveries of thirty different nations, comforted by the knowledge that Britain would always be a merchant nation.

It was less than ten minutes later that a solid wooden door on the other side of the room opened inwards, admitting John and Cate.

Seeing who was inside, John nodded before stepping back; his job was done now.

"All safe and sound?" Mycroft moved towards the door, his gaze switching directly to his wife's face. "My deepest gratitude, Doctor Watson," he added, seeing everything was well.

"I've been told there's a car waiting for me outside," John smiled. "So I'm going to head off and leave you two lovebirds alone," he grinned. "Thanks for a great trip, Cate; it was fun." With a slight nod of his blonde head, the doctor was gone.

Having already made her farewells, Cate waved John goodbye and turned, happy that Mycroft had taken the time to come and meet her. Almost before the door had closed, she found herself completely enfolded in an ultrafine merino single-breasted Gieves and Hawkes, Mycroft's mouth on hers, his kiss at first soft but growing rapidly more needy. He parted her lips hungrily, his hands keeping her close, his arms holding her tight.

_"Christ_, Catie," he muttered between caresses. "No more being away while you're pregnant; I've been beside myself."

Her head already starting to whirl, Cate focussed on breathing as her husband's purposeful kisses stole all other thought from her mind; sighing as she became lightheaded.

"You're making my head spin," she murmured breathlessly, laughing.

"_Endure_," he said, holding her tighter, unyielding as he kissed her with the pent-up passion of three anxious days.

"Mycroft, you're making me giddy," she whispered, balanced completely in his embrace.

"I want you giddy," he whispered back, his kisses becoming deliberate, appreciative. "I want you giddy and in my arms; I don't want you at work anymore," he murmured. "I want you out of harm's way so I can sleep at night." His fingers were in her hair, his mouth gentled now and unhurried.

"I've already told the University I'll be clearing my desk next week," she breathed, her hands sliding over his shoulders as his grasp tightened around her and his mouth took the air from her lungs.

As she lay in the cradle of his arms, Mycroft felt himself on the edge of turmoil, almost losing his composure to an inner tumult as Cate responded recklessly to his passionate demands. He caught himself, pulling his frayed self-control back into order, inhaling deeply and watched her eyes flutter open.

"You undo me," he smiled unevenly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "And in a public place, Professor Holmes," he looked half-serious, leaning his head against hers. "Whatever will people say?"

"You started it," Cate tried to settle her pounding heart. To be so demonstrative beyond the privacy of their home was unlike him, and yet, at the same time, rather wonderful. Apparently, he'd missed her. She smiled against his chest.

"Shall we go?" she asked, stepping back and sliding her hand into his. "I have a desire to be in my nest."

"Nest?" Mycroft hooked her fingers into the crook of his arm as they walked downstairs to the car.

"The one you made for me, where I can indulge all my broody impulses without embarrassing myself or anyone else,' she laughed.

"Are you having broody impulses?" he was intrigued and a little charmed by the notion. An image of Cate wandering around arranging piles of soft-furnishings floated through his thoughts. He smiled again. Perhaps not quite _that_ broody.

"I've been having a recurring desire to knit something," she frowned in minor frustration. "Which would be absolutely fine if I could actually knit,' she added. "I may have to get Nora to give me a crash-course if only to get the urge out of my system."

"I'm sure she would be delighted to oblige," Mycroft said mildly, handing her into the Jaguar.

"And there's another thing," Cate looked quite grave.

"What?" he was stopped short by her sudden urgency.

"I have to make strudel," she nodded. "I need it."

"You _need_ strudel?" Mycroft looked doubtful.

Cate nodded emphatically. "Need," she confirmed. "As in _must have_."

Mycroft stared straight ahead, allowing only the corners of his mouth to curl. Far be it from him to comment on his wife's sudden compulsions.

"And before you start looking too entirely smug for words," she said. "This is not a stereotypical craving, but a reasoned, logical and thoroughly researched piece of nutritious good-sense," she added. "I just happen to want it rather immediately."

"But not a craving," Mycroft linked his fingers through hers, watching the afternoon scenery fly past along the M23.

"Heavens, no," Cate was adamant, stroking his skin. "Selective nutrition."

"I shall have someone call _Kipferl_," he smiled at the passing treeline. "Arrange a delivery for you."

"Today?"

"This very afternoon, my darling," Mycroft pressed the back of her hand to his lips. "Can't have you being ill-nourished."

Cate smiled out of the window on her side of the car. "I love you," she said.

"I know."

###

The person in the cupboard had been an electrician looking for a faulty connection and not the individual Sherlock had hoped to attract. Their trap hadn't been sufficient to bait Sarkis: he'd have to find another way. John and Cate had flown back to London earlier, leaving him a clear field now to do as he felt most indicated. Though he didn't know the city as well as London, there were a few things he could put in train that might flush her out. The main thing now was to correctly identify the woman's next steps, and, if he couldn't actively pre-empt her activities, he could at least anticipate them.

Assuming her obsession with his brother and, _ergo_, Cate, remained a primary motivator for her behaviour, then Sarkis would act in a predictable manner and she would seek a way to locate and attack either or both of them. This meant she would probably attempt to return to Britain by one means or another. Mycroft had already had both her passports flagged for any possible incursion, but Talina Sarkis was not without means now and she was both clever and driven: who knew what she might be willing and capable of doing.

Sherlock had managed to backtrack her a little way from the Ritz-Carlton, but the trail was now several days old and peoples' memories were not what he needed them to be.

Really; it was too annoying.

Several people thought they recognised Sarkis' photo, but couldn't be sure when they'd seen her, or where and, on second thoughts, weren't completely sure it was the same woman.

After spending two days chasing fruitlessly after whispers and shadows, Sherlock called a halt.

"She's gone, Mycroft," he said. "Into hiding, somewhere in Europe, but not around here."

"Then come home," Mycroft was fatalistic. He had taken every feasible step to remove the risk posed by this dangerously unpredictable and violent woman. There was a small chance she'd given up and gone away, but he doubted it. Talina had not changed that much and he recalled very clearly her actions of some fifteen years prior. He frowned in frustration. All he could do now was remain vigilant until she emerged from whatever dark place she had chosen to inhabit. He would take every step to protect those close to him.

###

The return drive to Yerevan flew by, and they were at the main central train-station well in time for the first leg of their long train-ride back into Western Europe.

"Bet they've never even been out of Armenia before, have they?" Lestrade whistled quietly as he piled the bundles and bags onto a luggage trolley.

Julia shook her head, laughing.

"What?" he stopped, waiting.

"They've never been out of _Akhtala_," she told him. "This is already way beyond their comfort-zone."

Greg turned to observe the three women. They were clumped together for comfort, their faces slack with amazement as they looked at the wide paved roads and the neatly trimmed sycamore trees of the bustling metropolis. The sound of motorbikes behind them made them turn as one, hands over mouths in surprise as a small gang of leather-clad riders roared away from the station.

Tapni giggled, muttering something that had Karun snorting with laughter.

"She thinks they're pretty," Julia deadpanned. "Let's hope she never gets the chance to tell them."

Ayda came up and threaded her arm through his.

"You can catch the train for us now," she nodded, affably.

"That's where we're going," Greg smiled. She reminded him a bit of his Nan. Could drink her weight in Guinness any day of the week, and carried great sacks of coal right up until she died. These old women: tough as boots and eternal. He smiled again: he would catch the train for them.

Everything went almost exactly to plan, until they reached Budapest; their last stop before arriving back in Vienna. The entire area around Keleti Station was packed with a significant number of police-cars and large, uniformed men with semi-automatic guns and unhappy faces. Something very bad was happening, and their little party was right smack in the middle of it all.

Karun and Tapni were the first to become anxious, as the sight of uniforms and guns reminded them too much of things they had hoped to leave behind. The rising tone of their distracted, questioning voices and the growing tension on their faces, made their fears obvious.

Ayda was silent for once, staring out across the crowded platforms, watching the faces of people as they moved carefully, unwilling to attract attention to themselves.

Garret and Lestrade looked at each other. Clearly there was a problem and it involved the police; could be anything. Neither of them spoke the local language, so there was no way for them to find out more. Karun started to sob quietly, the old woman clearly terrified.

"I'll go and see what I can find out," Greg stood, patting Ayda on the shoulder. He smiled, trying to look confident, though he felt anything but. He could only try.

As he stepped outside their compartment, he almost collided with a woman who'd been heading towards the next carriage.

"_Sorry_," his apology was automatic. The woman stopped.

"English?" she asked, lifting her eyebrows.

Lestrade nodded. "On our way back to London," he confirmed. "But we don't know what's going on and I've got a few scared old ladies in there who only speak Armenian," he tipped his head back towards the compartment. "It's a little frightening for them."

"I speak Armenian," the woman smiled. "Would you like me to come and reassure them that everything's well? There's been a bank-robbery in Rákóczi Avenue," she added.

"That would be fantastic, if you really don't mind," Greg smiled his relief. "We're just in through here," he pointed.

Following his directions, the woman entered the cramped train-compartment, standing by the open doorway and smiling.

"My name is _Anna_," she nodded at the three old ladies, her Armenian fluent and gentle. "Do not be afraid," she said. "The police are catching a robber; there is nothing to fear."

As the ancient aunties began to relax, Julia took a deep breath.

"Thank you so much for helping," she said, gratefully. "I'm afraid my Armenian just isn't up to complex explanations."

"Delighted to be able to help," Anna smiled again. "I'm heading to London myself, so it's no trouble at all."

"If you're going all the way through to London, why don't you stay with us and have some company?" Garret shrugged. "Unless, of course, you'd prefer to have some peace and quiet," she raised her eyebrows at Karun and Tapni. "These two have talked non-stop since Yerevan."

Laughing, Anna lifted her hands. "Why not?" she said. "It'll be a long and boring trip otherwise, and at least here I can be of some use as a translator."

"That's brilliant," Lestrade also felt a wave of relief. He knew there must be a thousand things the old women wanted to know, and if this very helpful stranger was willing, then who was he to suggest otherwise. "_Great_."

"I'll just grab my bags and then I'll be back," Anna stood, still smiling, stepping once more outside the compartment, checking to see if anyone was behind her.

As soon as she saw she was properly alone, the smile dropped from her lips. Though unexpected, this was a potentially useful situation. She had planned to enter Britain quietly and discreetly, but doing it in the middle of a laughing crowd of _émigrés_ might be an even better cover.

Picking up a large holdall, Talina Sarkis headed back towards the compartment.

###

It was all very peaceful.

Cate had imagined she would find the absence of her work to be an insurmountable issue: a loss of huge proportions. In fact it had been something of a relief; to know that the days and weeks had assumed a different guise: that it was now her time and the time of her children. Hours and days lost their meaning. There was light and there was dark, and she found she was floating in a continuation of awareness between each one. Not even Mycroft's presence had much impact on her perception as she found herself focusing in greater and greater detail on the small things. Her heartbeat; the vibration of a child's movement; the slow descent of a summer's evening sun into dusk. The way her body grew sleek and low. The amazing clarity of her skin. The way violin music had become too beautiful to bear without tears.

She was thirty-five weeks pregnant. Her last scan two days prior showed Julius with his thumb in his mouth and Blythe partially upside-down. She felt very heavy now; like a boat running against an ebb-tide and sluggish in the water. Mycroft had been constantly at her side; massaging her neck; fetching cool drinks and rubbing her ankles when they ached. She felt wonderful, she felt weary.

It was all very peaceful and she knew it was coming to an end.

"I only want to pop down for the day to make sure everything's ready," Cate announced at breakfast, crunching a second piece of toast. "I don't think I'm going to have much time after the end of the month," she grinned, anticipating his reaction. He didn't disappoint.

"I thought Roget had earmarked the fifteenth of next month?" Mycroft's hand paused as he turned to examine her expression, his back straightening. "You think it will be sooner?"

"I'm good for a couple of weeks more, I think," Cate stretched her legs; her back had been aching most of the night. "I feel fine, just a little tired, but I'm perfectly okay to pop down to Deepdene for a few of hours and be back by dinner time. I only want to remind myself of anything that might need doing so I can ask Nora to remember for … afterwards," she smiled.

"And you want to drive down today?" Mycroft sipped tea. He wasn't entirely sure this was in any way a sensible idea. "I have a late meeting this afternoon with the Chief of the Defence Staff and I really can't postpone at such short notice without an exceptionally good reason."

"I rang John last night to see if he was free and he said he'd be delighted to act as a safari guide and bearer for a trek into deepest Surrey," she smiled. "He said that your brother was being an almighty pain since Greg Lestrade had gone off on his Community Engagement training course, and he'd be very happy to escape the confines of Baker Street for the day," she stopped, checking his face. "Will that calm your fears?"

"John will be with you the entire time?" Mycroft slipped into his jacket. "And you'll be back before dinner?"

Standing slowly and rubbing her back, Cate smoothed down his lapel, straightening his tie. She was so rounded now, that she had to stretch to reach. "I promise to behave impeccably and to be back here before you are," she lifted her right hand. "Scout's honour."

Wrapping his arms gently around her shoulders, Mycroft smiled. These last few weeks had been difficult for everyone, and a day's outing might be just the thing to take Cate's thoughts elsewhere. _Especially if she were correct about the timing_, he realised, a latent shiver racing up his spine.

Being the middle of the week, the drive down to Deepdene was very swift; the Jaguar taking almost exactly an hour from townhouse front-door to the white-gravelled driveway. Dropping them off, the driver announced his planned return at three that afternoon.

Helping her out of the car, John took the key and opened the front entrance, taking her elbow and walking her slowly into the main hall of the house.

"I can see why you like this place," he smiled, looking around at the great patches of sunlight coming through the windows. "It'll be great for the kids."

"That's my plan," Cate headed towards the kitchen, rubbing her back. Sitting in the car had been getting increasingly uncomfortable all the way down and she was glad to be standing. "Tea?"

"Lovely," John nodded. "Now what is it you wanted to check while you were here?" he asked, looking around.

"I just want to inventory all the consumables and all the linens and everything in the freezer," Cate called from the kitchen where she was filling the kettle. "Not the stuff in the cellar, I let Mycroft run riot down there," she said. "But anything in any of the main rooms that are less than half-full I need to get Nora to replace or replenish since I'll probably not be terribly interested in doing it myself the next time I'm here."

Already in the main Drawing room, John catalogued the bottles of spirit on the sideboard with a fractionally envious eye: Mycroft knew his single malts. About to ask Cate what she planned to do with any bottles that were nearly empty, John's head snapped around at the sound of Cate's alarmed squeak and breaking china. Jogging into the kitchen, he immediately took in the scene. Cate had dropped the teapot.

"Not to worry," John looked around for a dustpan and brush. "Easily cleaned up," he stood, suddenly taking in the expression on Cate's face. She was pale, but wide-eyed; intensely focused but staring at nothing. She turned to meet his eyes.

"The babies are coming," she whispered.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

_Incommunicado – An Early Departure – I Know Her – Instead of a Birth – A Born Copper – Don't Panic – Hurry – I Trust You – This Needs To End – Soon Be There – Accessory After the Fact – How Are You With Blood? – The Flower Lady – Daddy – Push – Nice Apgar – A Writer of Thrillers – Sixty Feet Down – No Laughing – Uncle Sherlock – Longer Than Stone._

#

#

_9.00 am._

Satisfied Cate was in dependable hands; Mycroft began the first of the day's several meetings pertaining to senior staffing levels in Her Majesty's Armed Forces. Under British constitutional law, the funding of the three armed services was at the whim of the Crown; in reality, it was at the whim of the British Parliament. In practice, however, such fiscal lifeblood ran through the hands of a very few, very senior and very discreet Civil Servants.

It was incredibly bureaucratic, of course, but Mycroft had always considered these discussions the price one paid for democracy and shouldered the burden when it was unavoidable.

Calling up comparative charts covering all three services and spread over the last three years, Mycroft raised his eyebrows at the select gathering.

"You take my point," he spoke softly. It wasn't a question.

"But in real terms …"

"In _real_ terms, Sir Alastair," Mycroft silenced the old soldier with a measured look. "The levels are grossly skewed towards the less … _active_ areas, and we must address this."

Several of the meeting's participants leaned back in their generously-padded chairs and folded their arms.

Mycroft sighed. It would be so simple to dispense entirely with this time-consuming form of debate, except the British Public tended to become nervous unless there was at least some nod towards consensus. Turning to his laptop, he pressed a key, recalling the argument to the screens in front of each of them. This was going to be a tedious waste of the morning and would pass swifter without interruption. He made a show of turning off his Blackberry and laying it down on the gleaming rosewood table; code, in these rarefied climes, for the most serious of discussions.

To an individual, everyone around the table followed suit. Nobody would leave this room now, until the debate was concluded.

"To _recap_ …" Mycroft returned his attention to the first chart.

###

_10.15 am._

"Are you sure?" John watched as Cate's eyes remained wide and inwardly-focused.

"John," she scowled. "I'm _sure. _Felt like the most surprising cramp in history," she added, clutching her lower belly. "Made me drop the damn teapot," she surveyed the scattered bits sadly. "I liked that teapot."

"I'm sure Mycroft will be happy to buy a new teapot for you," John took Cate's pulse. It was a little jumpy.

"Was that the first or have you had others this morning?"

"That was the first recognisable one," Cate leaned against the bench top. "But my back has been aching since last night and it's starting to drive me insane … it's like a deep, dull itch I can't reach."

"How long did it last?" John's fingers were still on her pulse, his eyes on his watch.

"About twenty seconds, but then it stopped," she shook her head. "And now I have to find another teapot."

John grinned. Trust Cate to underplay everything. "It might be best to make a move back to London, don't you think?"

"According to all the books, if this is the beginning, it's going to take hours, so I can at least have a cup of tea." Cate filled the kettle.

"Okay, tea sounds fine, but then I think we should curtail today's events and get you back to your doctor, just in case. Where are you arranged to deliver?"

"I'm not booked into Queen Charlotte's until the fifteenth of next month, so this is too early," Cate looked pleased as she located a teapot on a high shelf. "Can you reach that for me please?"

Bringing down the spare pot, John's forehead wrinkled.

"Four weeks early is not _too_ early," he said. "Not with twins; I told you twins sometimes come sooner than anticipated. How are you planning to call Mycroft's car?" he asked. "Do you have the driver's number?"

Pausing in the act of opening the tea, Cate pursed her lips.

"Good point," she said. "I have no idea of the man's number. I shall have to call Mycroft, although," she said, turning to face the doctor. "I'd really rather not bother him until I know with some certainty what's happening."

"You don't want to bother him?" he smiled. "_Bother_? Really?"

"I'm not even sure I want him anywhere near the birth," Cate sighed. "He'll over-react, I know it."

"Mycroft, overreacting?" John laughed. "I doubt such a thing is possible within the known laws of Physics."

Raising her eyebrows at him, Cate shook her head. "You have no idea what he's like," she said. "He gets worked up if he thinks I'm even in moderate discomfort; he'll be quite unhinged if I'm in real pain."

John thought for a moment about an unhinged Mycroft Holmes. _Nah_. Never happen.

"That's something you can discuss with him," John poured boiling water into the teapot. "First we need to get you back to London."

"Then I suppose I'll have to call him … _ah_ …" she hissed slightly, clutching her stomach again, compressing her lips until it was over.

"Ten-minutes apart and lasting thirty-seconds," he sounded fatalistic. "Looks like the real-deal to me," he said. "Phone him now."

Pulling out her mobile, Cate phoned, only to be advised that the owner of that particular number was unavailable and her already-logged call was being transferred to a secure message-bank. She was invited to leave a message.

"Hello, darling," Cate smiled as she said the words. "John and I are coming back to London earlier than planned; see you later, my love," she ended the call with a small sigh.

"His phone is off," she shrugged. "He's in a high-level meeting, in that case. And I don't have Anthea's new number yet," she paused. "We'll have to find another way. _I know_," she smiled, brightly. "I'll take the Bentley."

"You plan on driving back up to London while you're having contractions? Give me a break._ Keys_?" John poured her a small mug of tea as she dug the Bentley's keys out of her bag. "You drink this while I go get the car, and I'll meet you out front in five minutes."

"Yes, Doctor," Cate grinned, rolling her eyes.

"Better bring a load of towels with you," John added half-way through the door. "Just in case."

###

_10.35 am._

That was interesting.

Sherlock brought his laptop down onto his knees checking the CCTV footage from above the main entrance to the Queen Charlotte's Hospital. He had been watching this source for several weeks now, intrigued by the extraordinarily dodgy characters that frequented the vicinity. Given though, that Wormwood Scrubs, one of Britain's most cherished correctional facilities was right next door, it wasn't all that surprising.

But it wasn't the colourful personalities that had caught his eye: no; it was the recurrent appearance of a woman. Vaguely familiar, with short, fair hair; hoodie, jeans. Nothing memorable, except to someone who was looking for the intentionally inconspicuous. This was the fourth time he'd seen her, watching the entrance of the hospital, taking note of people entering, movement of medical staff, vehicles, ambulances.

Manipulating the images, he sought a clear facial shot; anything with clarity. It was impossible to be sure; he needed access to Mycroft's face-recognition software. The woman could be Talina Sarkis.

The doorbell rang.

"Get that, would you?" he remained focused on the woman. The absence of movement in the room had him turn in irritation. Ah, yes. John had driven down to Deepdene with Cate for the day. He could ignore the ringing, but the visitor was refusing to do the decent thing and disappear. Running down, he flung open the door to be greeted by a smiling Lestrade.

"Back from the depths of darkest Clapham," he grinned, waving several manila folders. "Apparently you've been offending everyone down at the Yard again."

"Not I, Inspector," stamping back upstairs, Sherlock wanted to demand the folders immediately, but as they were clearly cold-cases, and the situation he was currently considering was somewhat more pressing, he restrained himself. "Must have been some other poor, bored unfortunate."

"Brought you a few unsolveds that might be peculiar enough even for your bizarre notions of interest," he said, sitting in John's chair. "Any chance of a cuppa?"

"Tea would be nice," Sherlock waved a hand over his shoulder as he manipulated the image on his laptop, zooming in and expanding the area of the woman's features where she'd been caught almost full-face in one shot.

Lestrade narrowed his eyes, peering. He sat forward, focusing.

"I know her," he nodded, looking thoughtful. "How do I know her?"

"You know this woman?" Sherlock swivelled the laptop to provide the clearest image. "How do you know her?"

"Her name is Anna … _something_," Greg knitted his brow, remembering. "Met her on a train leaving Budapest, back in June. Came all the way back to London with her."

"Fascinating though the story of your peregrinations though Europe might be at any other time, Inspector," Sherlock returned the computer to the table beside him. "I am far more interested right now in learning everything you know about this person," he added. "Can you recall her last name? Where she was going to stay? Anything about her? It's important."

"Why so?"

Sherlock told him.

###

_10.36 am._

It hadn't been as difficult as Talina had imagined discovering where Cate Holmes was planning to deliver.

Knowing Mycroft would insist on his wife being under private care, and that, in this entire massive city, there was only one place where all the best medical advisors were based: Harley Street. It had been a relatively simple exercise for her to contact the receptionist in each maternal health specialist and say that she'd been advised to contact them by a dear friend. The _name_ of her dear friend? Why, _Cate Holmes_, of course, the professor; wife of Mycroft Holmes. Sarkis had found Roget's office on the third call. Once that knowledge was in hand, a visit to the practice web-site told her everything else she needed to know, especially the hospital at which the obstetrician consulted. After that, it would simply be a matter of watching and waiting. She'd even been inside the hospital and had a long, detailed look around the place: the only cover she'd needed was a large bunch of flowers and a lost look.

Leaning back against a wall opposite the tall building, she watched cars and taxies and people as they ebbed and flowed around and through the entrance. She had stood in this spot so often in the last week she no longer paid attention to the CCTV cameras high up on the hospital's façade, not that knowledge of them would have made any difference.

Sarkis had decided to come here daily until she saw the focus of her obsession.

And then instead of a birth, there would be a death.

###

_11.10 am._

Lestrade sat at his desk, fingers linked across his stomach, his mouth pursed in thought. It had been three months since they'd brought the old ladies back to London. Three months since that exhilarating, frustrating journey. There had been all manner of family celebrations at which, of course, his presence was demanded. He'd even tried more of the family vodka, though this time, he'd stopped at one. Julia had smiled; a friendly kind of smile.

And he'd not really had an opportunity to see much of her since. There'd been a couple of dinners, but then work got in the way, and then there was her job on the Special Projects Division which took both time and energy. Lestrade smiled unhopefully; she'd been right all along; it would never have worked between them.

Yet, whatever _might_ have been, it was only fair he acquaint Julia with the reality of their linguistic saviour from Budapest.

"You're _kidding_?" she was shocked when he rang her. "Hang on," she said. I'm coming over."

Fourteen-minutes later, there was a brief knock on his office door before she walked straight in.

"I could have been in a very private meeting," he said, leaning back in his seat. "A confidential debriefing."

"You weren't," she said, folding her arms. "I asked Donovan."

Lestrade filled his eyes with her as she stood, hands in pockets, hair blown about her face.

"I've missed you, you know," he said, standing and walking around the front of his desk. "I still think about our trip," he added, sitting back on the edge. "Thought I'd be over it by now, but I miss it. I miss our dinners," he said making a face, a little self-conscious.

"I miss our evenings, too," Garret shrugged in her coat. "Things have gotten a bit busy."

Greg took a deep breath as he repeated Sherlock's explanation. "The woman on the train, _Anna_," he said. "She used us as a distraction through customs, so they wouldn't check her passport too closely," he said, standing and looking out of the window. "I guess they thought a couple of British DI's were enough of a character reference."

"I don't like that thought terribly much," Julia sounded unhappy as she stared at her shoes. "Though Cate Holmes is about as well-protected as anyone can be," she added. "Her husband seems to have a finger in every security pie known to man; her brother-in-law is some kind of genius-sleuth; then there's that doctor friend who's as handy with a weapon as he is with a thermometer … and then there's you," she said, looking up, a half-smile on her lips.

"I'm not one of Cate Holmes' protectors," Greg frowned.

"Yeah, you are," she smiled again. "You were at her wedding. You worry about her."

"Well, yeah, okay. _Maybe_," he said, finally. "What do you think about me?" he sounded diffident, uncertain.

"About you?" Garret raised her eyebrows.

"Yes. You've said what you think about everyone else," Greg was curious. "And that makes me wonder what you're thinking about me, I mean," he paused, standing. "All these months you've been saying we'd never work out, do you even _have_ an opinion of me?"

Julia assessed his expression: she'd wondered if he'd ever want to know. She took a deep breath.

"You always try to manage everything by yourself, even when you can't," she began. "You deal honestly with people as well as trying to please them," she paced slowly in front of him. "You're a born Copper and yet you still want to see the world as an innocent place."

Turning his head to watch, he found it difficult to interpret her expression.

"You're a gentle man, but tough when you have to be," she added, staring out the window. "You're clever and fun and serious, even when you're worrying about doing your job properly. In _effect_, DI Lestrade," she summarised, turning her eyes back to his. "A complex interior, wrapped up in a handsome skin. A deeply attractive package," she stopped. "Is that what you wanted to know?"

Lestrade's face was blank, nothing to indicate what he might be feeling.

"You think I'm a deeply attractive package?" he asked eventually, turning towards her.

"Yes," she replied.

"You think I'm deeply attractive?" he straightened up into his official Detective Inspector look.

"Yes," she said again.

"You _find_ me deeply attractive?" he stepped closer.

Julia's heart thudded. "Yes," she said.

"_Deeply_ attractive?" another step. He was within arm's reach. His eyes glittered.

"Yes."

"Oh _God_," he sighed.

Leaning down, his eyes never leaving hers until she closed them, his kiss was as soft as an evening breeze.

###

_11.12 am._

"Damn, these are obnoxious," Cate grimaced as another one hit. Not intolerably painful yet, but deep and intense enough to stop her breath.

They were on the A3 just outside of Surbiton when Cate's shocked "_Oh_," caught his attention.

"You okay?" John was focusing on moving into the right-hand lane, the faster to get into town.

"Good idea to bring the towels," she muttered, arranging them more comfortably beneath her. "How long before we get there?"

"About another twenty minutes before we hit London, and then the drive out to Shepherd's Bush … depends on the traffic."

"I'm not sure we have another twenty minutes, John," her voice was strained as she hissed, louder this time. "I'm going to try Mycroft again."

Taking a calming breath to steady her fingers, she dialled his number, quietly hoping he would be there this time. His number obstinately refused to co-operate, suggesting instead that she leave another message.

"Hello, darling," her words were a little forced. "Looks like both Mr Roget and I were overly-optimistic in our estimates. I think your children are planning to meet you sometime later today. John's taking me to the hospital as I speak. Everything's fine, don't worry. I'll see you later."

"I'll call forward and get an ambulance to meet us before we get to London." John touched the accelerator, already at the speed-limit.

"Good idea," Cate gritted her teeth, groaning now, as another contraction flared. "How come everyone's been telling me this should take hours and hours and now it's happening in _minutes_? This is not going to plan, John!"

"Don't panic, everything's going to be fine, I promise," John was already on the hands-free to the London Ambulance Service, giving his GP registration number and arranging to meet up with a vehicle at the nearest convenient place: the car park of a Golf Club in Richmond. They asked if the call was urgent.

He stole a look at Cate's face; she was concentrating entirely upon the car's dashboard, focused, intent and very quiet. A bead of sweat clung to her brow.

"Yes," he said. "It is."

They gave him an ETA of seven minutes.

He put his foot down.

###

_11.20 am._

Fortunately, they had bowed to the inevitable before he'd had to resort to anything more forceful than reason, and he switched his Blackberry back on.

There was the usual bank of messages, their caller IDs rendering them less than critical. Then he saw two messages with Cate's number and he paused in mid-stride.

Listening to the first message, a small frown creased his forehead. Listening to the second, his expression became fixed as a pulse of alarm shot through him. Noting the time of the second call, some eight minutes earlier, he hit reply and waited for her to respond.

There was nothing. He cancelled the call and rang her number direct. _Voicemail_. Flicking to John's number he called the doctor, only to be shunted through to a medical message-bank. He took a deep breath.

Reaching the privacy of his office, he rang Roget's clinic, only to be advised the obstetrician was already attending a delivery at Queen Charlotte's. Now actively concerned, Mycroft summoned Anthea and explained the situation in terse, abbreviated terms. Calling for his car, he decided to go directly to the hospital, asking Anthea to make several calls and relay the information to him _enroute_. At this time of day, it would take twenty-minutes to reach Queen Charlotte's Hospital.

He told his driver to hurry.

###

_11.22 am._

By the time the Bentley pulled into the Golf-club car park, Cate was having fairly powerful contractions every five minutes, and it was all she could do to focus on breathing through them: talking was not an option.

Getting her out of the car and into the ambulance had been an effort, but at least inside she could relax and lie down or sit as she preferred.

His phone rang. He ignored it.

"Cate," John held her hands as she concentrated on another spasm. "The paramedics can help you now, or I can," he said. "We're going to get you to the hospital in a very short time, but we need to check everything is going according to plan, and you have to decide what you prefer."

Growling with effort, her forehead liberally beaded with sweat, Cate sucked in a hard breath.

"I trust you, John," she groaned. "Tell me what to do."

"Right, then," he turned to the nearest paramedic. "I need clean hands," he said.

"I think we can fix you up there, Doctor," the woman-driver grinned, holding up an industrial-sized container of antibacterial hand gel. "Be our guest."

Turning back to Cate, he looked confident. "Lie back and relax as much as you can," he smiled. "Let's see what the young Holmes' are up to, shall we?"

The ambulance started to move. They were ten minutes away from the Queen Charlotte.

###

_11.24 am._

Sherlock was on his way to the hospital when Anthea rang him. As she explained the situation, he decided against telling her about the presence of the Sarkis woman outside the building. Instead, he called his brother.

"Sherlock? This isn't a good time," Mycroft sounded singularly tense.

"It's Cate, obviously."

"Yes. By the sounds of it, she's gone into early labour and she and John are going directly to the hospital. I'm heading there too."

"Talina Sarkis is waiting outside," Sherlock said. "You should send the police, or some of your security goons."

"_Sarkis_? Are you sure?" Mycroft was suddenly very cold.

"Fairly sure. Lestrade confirmed she's a woman he met on a train in Budapest in June, who came to the UK calling herself _Anna_."

"Where are you?"

"I'm heading to the hospital," Sherlock looked out of the cab's window. "I plan on finding her for you."

"Do whatever has to be done, brother. This needs to end now."

Mycroft bit his lip in unaccustomed frustration. The Jaguar was snarled in lunchtime traffic and going nowhere. _Damn it all_. He should have called a helicopter instead. _Hang on, Cate._

His hand tightening into a fist, he counted the seconds as the car inched forward.

Oh, God. _Cate_.

###

_11.26 am._

The ambulance was stuck in lunchtime traffic and going nowhere. Less than a mile from the hospital and they'd ground to a total halt.

"Tell them _to please get_ _a bloody move on_, John," Cate gritted her teeth as another eye-watering peak of pain knifed through her, the light summer dress now plastered to her body as sweat ran into her eyes. He wiped her face with a damped cloth.

"They're doing the best they can," he said, holding her hand. "Breathe now," he said. "Breathe deep and slow. Soon be there."

He wished he had something more than an ordinary stethoscope to listen to the foetal heartbeats; the last thing he wanted to deal with now was a distressed baby. He'd have to do an emergency caesarean right here in the back of the ambulance.

John took a very deep breath. This had never happened in Afghanistan.

###

_11.27 am._

Anthea's call reached him in his office. Julia was still staring, bemused, into his eyes.

"I better take this," he mumbled, not looking away. "It might be … someone."

"Better get it, then," she smiled. "It might be someone _important_."

"I'll get it then," Lestrade leaned forward and kissed her again; a silly smile on his face.

The phone continued to ring.

You going to get that?" Julia stroked a finger across his mouth, entirely caught up in how soft his lips felt."

"Yeah, I'll … get it, then," he breathed her in: flowers and sunshine. He felt ridiculously pleased with himself.

The phone kept ringing.

Pulling himself together, Greg smiled as he answered in a particularly professional manner.

Wasting no time, Anthea told him what seemed to be happening at the Queen Charlotte, and asked if he'd be interested in helping correct the situation where two London DI's had become accessory to an illegal entry into Britain.

"We're on our way right now," he threw the phone down and grabbed Julia's elbow.

"Come on," he nodded. "Time to save the world."

###

_11.35 am._

Talina watched interestedly, as a London ambulance screeched to a halt in the broad porticoed entrance. A swarm of medical staff helped pull a wheeled-stretcher out of the vehicle on which was a blanketed form. Walking right beside the stretcher … was the blonde doctor …. she remembered his name._ John_

And if he were in an ambulance at a maternity hospital, there was a very good chance he was there to accompany … _ah_.

Sarkis nodded in satisfaction. All the hours and days of waiting had paid off.

Crossing the road, she headed into the hospital.

###

_11.45 am._

The Jaguar zoomed out of traffic and into the entrance of the hospital, where Mycroft flung himself out of the car and through the large doors. A senior nurse was waiting for him. He made a note to buy Anthea orchids.

"Mr Holmes?" the woman sounded competent. "I'm Sister Akello Nicholls. Your wife arrived approximately ten minutes ago and she's gone directly to Delivery Suite Three on the fifth floor. Doctor Watson is with her. We contacted Mr Roget, who, fortunately, was already in the hospital and he's now with her too. To my knowledge, neither your wife nor the babies are in distress and she has opted for a natural birth, although Mr Roget has offered her a caesarean."

The barrage of data was strangely calming, and Mycroft found himself breathing a little more slowly.

"Would you like to join your wife?"

Without conscious thought, he found himself nodding. Of course he wanted to be with Cate.

"How are you with blood, Mr Holmes?" Nicholls indicated to the nearest lift.

"Blood?"

"Your wife's blood, to be precise," she lifted her eyebrows. "Not every husband can tolerate the sight of his partner in childbirth, and the last thing we need in the delivery room is a fainty man." Akello Nicholls smiled knowingly. "However," she added. "You don't look like the fainty sort."

Delivering a calculatedly icy stare, Mycroft frowned at the short woman. "Sister Nicholls, I have never fainted in my life, I will not do so today."

"Very well, then, Mr Holmes," she nodded. "Let's get you gowned up."

###

_11.50 am._

Standing outside the hospital, Sherlock looked across the road, to a spot directly opposite the two CCTV cameras. He nodded. That was where she'd been waiting. Her efforts had paid off and now it was time to make up for his carelessness in Vienna. Stepping into the hospital he located a Security Officer.

"Have you seen this woman in the last fifteen minutes?" he demanded, putting the grainy photo of Sarkis right in his line-of-vision. "It's extremely important."

"And you would be Mr Holmes, I take it?" the man nodded. "Had a call from Management not two minutes ago telling me to assist you in any way possible, but no," he added. "Not seen this woman come in here today. We could ask Elsie," he suggested.

Elsie ran the flower shop right in the main foyer.

"Yeah, she came in a few days ago, bought a dozen long-stemmed pinks," she nodded. "She came by a few minutes ago," she added. "Didn't buy anything this time though."

"Which way did she go?"

"Up the stairs," the woman pointed to her right.

"Thank you," Sherlock was already running at speed up the marble stairway.

###

_11.52 am._

Pulling up outside the Queen Charlotte in a Met car, Lestrade and Garret waved their identification at the Security officer.

"Looking for this woman," Greg offered his copy of the Sarkis photo.

"Yeah, you and that other bloke what was just here."

"What other bloke?" Greg had to ask, but he knew.

"Name of _Holmes_," the man pointed up the stairs. "Ran up them not five minutes ago."

"Come on," Lestrade made for the stairs. "Hopefully, we're in time to stop a murder."

"Whose murder?" Garret was right behind him running up the stairs.

"Good question."

###

_11.54 am._

"Cate, listen to me," Roget was gowned and gloved. "You've come through the first two stages of labour much, much faster than anyone expected, which is wonderful news for you and the babies, and you're already almost fully dilated, but you can't push until I tell you to push, okay?"

"Don't talk to me about _not bloody pushing_," Cate ground her teeth as another wave of pain swept through her. "It's all I can do to _breathe_, let alone _push_."

Roget smiled, nodding at John. "Thank you Doctor Watson," he said. "I think we can take things from here, why don't you go and have a cup of tea?"

"Are you alright with me going, Cate?" John was unwilling to leave her alone without a friendly face.

A side-door opened, and a begowned Mycroft was ushered in by a short nursing Sister.

"Found him," she walked to Cate. "I brought you something you might find helpful," she smiled.

Clapping him on the shoulder, John nodded. "Over to you, _Daddy_," his grin wide, the tone of his voice saying it all as he left the delivery room.

"I'll speak with you later, Doctor Watson," Mycroft took in the entire scene. He went directly to Cate's side, grasping her hand and staring into her eyes, helpless.

"I'm here, my love," he murmured softly. "I'm sorry to be late, but you rather took me by surprise."

"Your children are the most _impatient_ little sods …" her words ended in an abrupt gasp as she rode another peak of pain.

"I believe we've had this discussion before, my darling, _darling_ Catie," Mycroft stretched his already-numb fingers as her grasp relaxed. "My half is probably waiting until all the fuss has died down before it makes an appearance."

"I don't care whose bloody half brought this on, I just wish they'd get a bloody move on and be done with _this_ …" arching her back almost off the bed, Cate clenched her teeth and moaned through closed lips.

###

_11.55 am._

Sarkis knew where the delivery suites were. All she had to do was wait for Mycroft or the blonde doctor and she'd find the woman. And shortly after she found the woman, the woman would be dead. _Simple_.

That her scheme was already doomed to fail made no difference to Talina's mad compulsion. She would continue with her plan until something stopped her.

Sarkis smiled again. Nothing was going to stop her now.

She pulled the small Beretta from her pocket.

###

_11.57 am._

The large sign on the wall announced that the main delivery suites were on this floor. He'd skipped the floors below him, convinced Sarkis would be up here, looking for Cate's room. God knows what Sarkis would try and do if she located his sister-in-law. He'd have to make sure he got there before she did.

###

_11.59 am._

Mycroft was sweating. Not that it was particularly hot, but the sight of Cate in what was clearly the most acute of agonies had him very much below par.

"Can nothing be done for her pain, Roget?" he snapped.

"Do you want pain-relief now, Cate?" the obstetrician was happy to oblige. "I can still arrange a variety of options that would make this much more comfortable for you."

"You said it would slow everything down … _don't want that_ … didn't want it when I came in, don't want it _now_," Cate twisted as yet another contraction wracked her body. "_I'm just never having sex ever again_, _Mycroft Holmes._"

Roget smiled. He'd heard it all before.

"You're nearly there, Cate," he spoke quietly now. "Nearly ready to push soon."

"Give me this, my love, allow me to help you now," Mycroft turned to face her, his voice rough with worry, his eyes storm-blue and overwhelmed. "Let me share this, _please_."

About to tell him to go straight to hell with his _fucking_ sharing, the longest spasm yet stretched her body and she felt tears flow down her face.

"Now, Cate," Roget instructed. "_Push now_."

"At me, my lovely girl, at _me_," Mycroft locked his eyes to hers. Gripping his fingers as if he were a lifeline, Cate pushed.

###

_12.00 pm._

They were walking down the corridor between widely-spaced closed doors, each one bearing the words _Delivery Suite_ and a number. Sherlock was standing outside Room Three.

"What are you doing here, Inspector? DI. Garret?" the younger Holmes frowned slightly. "Has Sarkis been apprehended?"

"Not yet," Greg looked around. "We helped the woman mask her tracks coming over, and there's an element of affront attached to that idea. We'd like to rectify the situation."

"She's after Cate, or Mycroft or both of them," Sherlock inhaled sharply. "She's quite mad, of course."

There was a scuffle and the noise of a falling body as a door opened and slammed shut at the far end of the passageway by the toilets.

"Stop her!" John was in a tangled heap of surgical gown, half-way into the Men's lavatories. "It's Sarkis!"

Sherlock, and Lestrade following immediately after, chased at speed.

Pulling himself upright, John winced and favoured his left hand. There was a jagged cut in the flesh of his palm and blood running down to his elbow. "She's carrying something metallic," he muttered. "Feels like a weapon but I just caught an edge of it."

"You're in the right place for it, Doctor," Garret looked around. "Let's find you a doctor," she joked.

"_Funny_," John winced again as he entered the nearest room in search of sterile absorbent materials.

###

_12.01 pm_.

Blythe Adin Holmes was weighed and wrapped in the softest of covers.

"Eight on the Apgar," the Midwife said. "Nice Apgar."

###

_12.02 pm._

Panting, Talina hid inside a cleaner's cupboard, trying to calm her breathing in case they heard. Why couldn't she finish what she started? Why was Mycroft's brother here and that other man, the silver-haired one. He was the one on the train. How come he was here?

Belatedly, she vaguely recalled him telling her he was in the police. _Of course_.

It would be almost impossible to get past the both of them. Perhaps she needed to find another way to get to Mycroft's wife. Maybe it might be even better to get her and the children too.

Talina smiled an awful smile.

In the meantime, she needed not to be found.

Stepping out of the cupboard, she saw a half-glassed door at the far end of the corridor bearing the logo _Stairs_. A way out.

She was ten yards away from the door when Sherlock stepped into the passageway and shouted for her to stop.

She accelerated, running towards the door at top speed.

"_Sherlock_!" Lestrade appeared further down the corridor, he followed, running.

###

_12.03 pm._

Julius Morgan Holmes cried lustily as the nurse wiped his face with a damp cotton swab.

"Julius _John_ Holmes," Cate breathed. "After his Godfather-to-be."

Mycroft leaned close, holding her against his chest, his heart thundering against his ribs, his throat drier than all the Saharan sands.

"Whatever you desire, my love," he whispered. "J.J. Holmes?"

"He'll be a writer, with that name," Cate closed her eyes as her body began to ease. "Thrillers."

###

_12.03 pm_.

Slamming the glassed-door open, Sarkis charged into the stairwell, looking back over her shoulder, heedless in her headlong flight.

The rail caught her at waist-height; she was travelling too fast to stop and careened over the top, managing to catch the base of a baluster one-handed above the abyss. She screamed.

They were five floors up.

"Give me your hand!" Sherlock reached down to grab Talina's wrist. "Take my hand and I'll pull you up."

Lestrade appeared. "_Fucking hell_," he grimaced, reaching another arm down to grab the woman's flailing hand. "Don't struggle, just _give us your hand_," he instructed roughly.

Flinching away from both of them, Talina's tenuous grip loosened. She felt her fingers slipping.

She screamed again as she felt the cold steel slide from her grasp.

"_Grab my hand!_" Sherlock stretched even further down, but it was too late.

Her fingers scrabbling madly as gravity pulled them free, Sarkis plummeted down between the long flights of concrete stairs.

She was oddly silent all the way down, scant seconds, until she hit the cold marble floor sixty-feet below, with a dull and terrible sound.

Lestrade closed his eyes and leaned his head down on the rail. He felt slightly nauseous.

"We have no proof at all now," he muttered. "It's all circumstantial."

"She dropped this, Inspector," Sherlock held up a long-bladed chef's knife. He held it by the tip of the blade and omitted to say _where_ she'd dropped it.

"There are fingerprints all over the handle," he observed, tilting the knife in the dim light of the stairwell. "Hers, of course."

"Helpful," Lestrade dug a large plastic evidence bag out of a pocket, wrapping the handle cautiously and with delicate care.

###

It was over.

All the months of waiting and planning, finished. Cate was light-headed with indescribable relief, the recent pain and anxiety were nothing in the larger picture. Sitting up in a lovely clean, cool bed, freshly washed and changed into something light and soft against her skin, she felt genuine euphoria. It was done. She'd done it. _It was over_.

Looking across the room, she caught herself grinning yet again at the sight of Mycroft leaning over the double-crib and staring endlessly at the twins, his eyes switching from one to the other and back, cataloguing every infinitesimal detail. The microscopic fingernails; the exquisite eyelashes, the tiny rosebud mouths. He was mesmerized, the tip of his index-finger stroked Blythe's dainty, elfin ear.

He was already in love with his children and she adored him for it.

Both twins had fed and immediately gone to sleep, their tiny forms already losing some of the heavy pink shock of birth. Each infant had an abundance of dark hair: Blythe looked like a Mohican; Julius wore the same quiff as his father. Their eyes were closed now, but Mycroft had seen them open: the brightest and darkest of blues, they made him ache with some indefinable feeling.

And so he stared, entranced by Cate's gift. He straightened up and sighed quietly, walking back to his wife, he lifted her hand.

"How do you feel now, you marvellous creature?" he smiled, pressing her palm against his cheek as he kissed her forehead. He sat wearily in a bedside chair. "If I'm fatigued, you must be exhausted."

Closing her eyes in a sleepy blink, Cate drifted in the moment. "Tired, yes," she admitted. "Sore. It feels like I've been wrestling with elephants."

"Roget wants to keep you in for a couple of days," Mycroft rubbed his face with his hands. "Is that going to be long enough?"

"I'm not ill, my love," Cate gave him a fond look. "I could be back at work next week."

Mycroft's head lifted and turned before his brain had actively processed the statement. His stare was so extremely objectionable, she laughed, then clutched her stomach in sudden discomfort. "_No making me laugh_," she pleaded. "Not _yet_."

"Tell me that was said in jest," he was calm and perfectly ready to quash any ridiculous notion she might care to voice.

"It was," Cate admitted. "And I apologise, but your expression was _priceless_," she winced, biting her lip to stop further laughter.

"I have an overwhelming desire to make you a gift of something," he said, suddenly serious, inspecting her hand, pressing her fingers to his lips. "I want to give you something enormously significant and meaningful, but I can't think yet what would be even remotely sufficient," he pondered. "A tropical island? Aston-Martin? The Crown Jewels? Tell me what you would like, my love, and you shall have it."

"Silly man," Cate lay back against the pillows. "As if I needed anything."

"Not the point," he said. "_I _wish to give _you_ something," he kissed her hand again. "But what?"

"There is one thing you can do for me, if you like," Cate looked interested.

"Name it," Mycroft wanted it to be big and expensive and difficult.

She told him.

He sighed. It wasn't quite what he'd had in mind.

###

"No thank you," Sherlock was polite, but firm. "I have no desire to …"

"Oh, shut up, you oaf," John swung around and deposited Blythe in his arms before anyone realised what was happening.

Sherlock froze; his entire body static, even his breathing halted at the sensation of the small, warm creature in his arms, staring up at him. For a second, nobody moved, then Blythe started to frown, staring uncertainly at his uneasy expression, her lower lip forming a faint pout.

"Do not cry, niece," Sherlock looked down at her with a strange curiosity; she was unexpectedly solid for such a diminutive frame. "I am unable to offer sustenance or extended comfort, although I am able to hold you safely for quite a long time."

Listening to his deep voice, Blythe watched his eyes, able now to focus on basic movement and even if she couldn't comprehend the meaning of the words, she decided against crying. These were pleasing sounds. She wanted more. She gurgled.

"That child is such a _trollop_," Cate was disgusted. "Cries her head off when I'm around, but the second one of the Holmes men talks to her, she's all smiles."

"Clearly, you do not yet understand the function of the male voice," Sherlock began a scientific exegesis as Cate turned to look at Mycroft, a huge grin on her face.

"Sherlock, Blythe _likes_ you," Mycroft was relaxed with Julius, asleep in the crook of his arm.

"Does she? _Why_?" the younger Holmes was puzzled.

"I have no idea; there are no reliable tests as yet for infantile intelligence. Blythe may be deficient in some fundamental way," Mycroft blinked and smiled as Cate looked vaguely horrified.

"Then your daughter exhibits great perspicacity and character," Sherlock watched a tiny hand catch the tip of his finger. "I shall endeavour to keep her happy for as long as possible," he stared down into barely-focused blue eyes "Do you like the sound of my voice, niece?"

"Perhaps she might like a new toy?" Cate suggested, bringing out two old teddy-bears.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, curious as to Sherlock's reaction. He had collected them from the toy hospital at Cate's request and, he conceded, they were looking much better than when they were admitted. Dougal seemed almost jaunty.

His eyes moving from the tiny infant in his arms to the dark-brown teddy bear, Sherlock experienced a momentarily odd sensation. _His old companion_.

"_Bru_," he looked calm. "It's been a long time."

"_Bru_? Cate held the reincarnated teddy; its dark fur glossy, both eyes a brilliant blue.

Still holding Blythe close to his shirtfront, Sherlock leaned down to Cate's ear.

"_Bruder_," he whispered.

Bruder. _Brother_.

Sherlock had named his bear for Mycroft.

For a second, her throat tightened and she felt her eyes sting. "If you're agreeable, we shall give this one to Blythe, and Julius may have Dougal," she managed.

Sherlock paused, looking down at his niece. He was entirely agreeable.

#

#

# Almost the end #

#

#

The first time she avoided him, Mycroft thought nothing of it; Cate was forever moving from one place to the next, these days.

The second time, as he tried to brush a hand along her neck and she slipped away, he found it curious.

The _next_ time, he stopped and waited for her to pass him in the kitchen, but she veered at the last second. She seemed averse to his touch. _Odd_.

The fourth time was in the children's room, as she finished feeding Julius and was laying him down to sleep. Walking quietly to her side, she slipped away from him with raised eyebrows and headed out of the room without a word.

He had been waiting for something like this; he smiled, faintly tantalised.

When both of the children were asleep; when everything that needed to be done had been done; when the light was fading from the summer sky, he walked into their bedroom as she was folding towels.

"So many things to do," Cate smiled, ready to slip by him again.

Mycroft's hand shot out, palm flat against the wall, preventing her from getting past.

"I think _not_," his voice was deliberate as he braced himself, wondering what she would do next.

"You can't simply keep me here," Cate watched his expression. It had been weeks since the birth, and he still seemed hesitant to touch her more than casually. Clearly, he needed motivation.

"I believe I can," Mycroft smiled down at his wife, leaning into her space until there was nowhere for her to look except up at him.

"You can't stop me like this," she protested breathlessly, her heart racing. It had been too long. "It's harassment or something," her voice caught. "Probably."

Leaning even closer, Mycroft's mouth found hers and his kiss was monumental: longer than stone, more compelling than gravity. His hands wound themselves around her head as the thrill of holding her near reignited banked passions.

"Oh Lord, _Catie_," he groaned, pulling her even closer, his arms binding her to his chest as his mouth caressed hers, her extended moan setting him aflame. Filling his hand with the heavy silk of her hair he sighed her name, lost in the feel of her.

"You still want an old married lady?" she whispered, smiling as she felt his heart pound in his chest.

"Only the one," he murmured.

#

THE END

#

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**NEW STORY ... Mycroft Holmes: Master of Secrets**

A romance. Treason, treachery and the Tower of London. Scandalous political intrigue and Spies.

A Cate and Mycroft story.

#

Thank you to everyone who has read, enjoyed and reviewed this story.

Your comments are wonderfully gratifying and always appreciated.

#


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